One million, two-hundred eleven thousand, five-hundred-thirty seven Hawaiians could give a
ratsass…
We all know the story… this Saturday, February 2nd, Punxsutawney Phil will come out… if he can see his shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter.. If he cannot, spring is on it’s way. (I like to think of myself as a “glass half full” kinda guy - but with 4-6” of snow predicted for tomorrow - it ain’t looking good.)
We too remember Bill Murray and his trek in Groundhog’s Day - where he’d awaken, and live February 2nd over, and over, and over again. Stuck.
I COULD remark about my house, the upgrading it needs, the financial wherewithal to do same nonexistent, and pity my party to Valentine’s Day… but in reality, life ain’t bad.
I have a minimum of one “hee haw” a day. I THANK those I work with for bringing their smile - so I can ape it. I love remembering, whilst important, what I do to feed Maynard and I is “just stuff.”
I “Bill Murray” daily and bemoan the fact I ain’t seena shadow or a fine booty emerge from my bed since… well, I forget if it was Bill or George W. that was in office….
Remember u foggers (said with love) I write to ME, and this is what this is.
I delight in ‘regular’. I LOVE pulling into work and seeing same faces day in, day out. I actually, in spitea my hella mortgage payment - smile when I pull in the driveway.
I look at my son and see good - when so many only record the bad.
I look at my bank balance - say “oh well” and go enjoy the hell outta a McDonald’s McChicken (ketchup only) and a water.
I watch my Tigers falter in a hoops game, and remember the loooong three-pointers they dropped in…
I see my mother’s casket, yet a moment later she’s bringing out a tray of Kool-Aid for me and the Flanigans…
I hear my father’s whistle… I see my sister’s (wonderful) shit-eaten grin… I catch Gabe, our old hound, in the yard on his back, scraping and twisting to solve that itch.…
I listen to Gary Lezak, hear 13 degrees and remember what it felt like to play 7 softball games on one July day and to do the Nestea plunge into the pool.
I see the vacant spot and I remember it occupied.
I talk as I drive - and imagine the response she’ll have.
I read the obits, thank God for another day, and think “ya know, if it ended today, I’d be Ok.. I’ve had an incredible life.”
I go to crank the Hot…. Rod… Lincoln, ye of one kicked in rear door, the passenger front door that “when it wants to” will fly open whilst driving.. The friggin’ driver’s window that never heard the song “what goes up, must come down.” And I’m thankful it starts. Gets me from Point A to Point B.
I “Bill Murray” it outta bed… go to work… same path… same “Hi Annette… I’d like a cuppa coffee, some salted peanuts and apacka Basic Light Shorts in a box”… and just when I think I’m watching the same day over and over… the subject of “good deeds“ came up… - I ask onea the nicest people I work with “when’s the last time you did a good deed?”.. She comes back with (almost tearfully… she’s my age... Mid fitties).. “This morning… every morning I go and clean up my father… get him dressed… cook his breakfast.. And come to work.” Damn daddy. And I worry about Bill Murray days, no bed partner, and the Bank of the West ATM’s laughter when I do a “balance inquiry” thingy…
I watch K-State thump KU for the first time in Manhattan, KS since 1983 (sorry Kendra, Lisa, Connie) and I thank God for athletics and all the enjoyment it’s brought me in my life…
I read the paper where 5 (of 12) players for my beloved Missouri Tigers are suspended for violation of team rules. I praise the coach - and I remember no matter what we do, there’s a consequence for our bad actions.
I come home and write excitedly, even though there ain’t nothing you’d consider exciting going on in my life.
I can’t wait for tomorrow -for I know it’s the last GD day I gotta wear slacks/shirt, the trash guy will pickup the 3 smelly bags of trash that have been in the kitchen, and that’s it’s exactly one week until payday.
My life is spectacularly unspectacular, if that makes sense. Why, I think I kinda even remember what it felt like the last time I had an ‘organism”… Let’s see… Oh yeah… “her”…
Life is roulette.. “Dammit, this time my number didn’t come up, I can’t wait for the next spin.”
Life is a roller coaster “oh shit, I just peed my pants on that downhill, but, me thinks they’ll dry off as we trudge to the top…”
“My team lost. Thank goodness they start at 0-0 again when play again Saturday“…
Thank GOODNESS for “the Bank of the Victurd”… for it holds every transaction in life I recall… all my friends, the stories, the laughs… all my loves, the beginnings, the ends, and the nifty stuff inbetween… my family… money in the bank.. Own a piece of the rock.. Great investment…
I really think.. Whateverinthehell happens 2/2 with “Phil” - it ain’t gonna affect me much. So what if it’s a Bill Murray day - what better than to repeat a wonderful day/moment within.
Thanks for being here…. HEY.. If you see your shadow Saturday - think back where all it’s been.. And the good times therein… if you don’t see your shadow… hot damn, go and have a bigass slaba ribs or.. A salad DRENCHED with Ranch dressing.
Seeya next time, regardless if it’s spring or winter… both are exciting… Love, Victurd.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Hands down……….
Victor, you prevert, what body part are you addressing tonight?
Well, since u suggested, let’s talk hands.
Hands are (is?) an interesting topic. You’re in good hands with Allstate. Comforted. Insured. No worry.
He was handsy. Ahm, like he was way more into the relationship from the get go than thou, thus, you had to fend off his hands with ur hands.
Lenda helping hand. Could be a neighbor, a relative, a buddy who’s moving again and you’d prayed he’d somehow lost your phone number. Someone who’s fallen. A disaster.
Buddy o’ mine. His 16 year old stepson. He was in trouble (again) for something-or-other. When Stepfather stepped to plate to present speech, he was met with an open hand, and the comment “Talk to the hand, because the ear's not listening.” So, sadly, he brought that saying to work and we were stuck listening to it until he decided to try his hand at another occupation.
Good hands. Twofold. Could be athletics, to describe a catcher in baseball, or a swift wide receiver in football who catches anything in or around him. Mostly though, used by the female, to describe the male in her life’s massage this/massage that/massage everything techniques. Good hands.
Hands = addresses. Again, several fold. At work, we have this fancified electronic time clock thing that initially “remembers” what our palm looks like - so, we must present it to clock in, and to clock out. There’s no clocking in or out for your buddy, we’re screwed. We gotta guy who hated this invasion - so- he brought in a rubberized hand, and attempted to utilize that because he couldn’t believe the audacity of the company to invade his privacy and ‘record’ his palm. Didn’t work, but you gotta hand it to him for trying.
Large hands, small hands, mediocre hands. I’ve heard rumors, regarding the male species, there’s distinct correlation between thumb size and “you know” size. Perverts, you’re gonna look from now on ain’tya? And…. Quit peeking at my thumbs. I happen to love all four inches of thumbs affixed to the enda my hand.
A show of hands.. This could be an answer to the 2nd grade teacher’s question “who studied their spelling words over the weekend?” or perhaps, in answer to a summer lunch question around our round concrete table by the preverts I work with “who’s slept with someone on their first date?”…
The high five... It’s obsolete now… The high five’s predecessor was the hand smack on the butt to acknowledge a good play, or good effort. When the first high five was ever given, this went by the wayside… it’s now been replaced by the “fist” of the hand touched by the fist of your teammate…
Clap your hands.. To show appreciation.. Acknowledge a good play.. Reward a fine artist.. Or simply, to be fitty-five driving in the car and you clap along with Archie Bell and Drells from Houston, Texas who “We don’t only sing, but we dance just as good as we want” and then ya got that refrain where they clap for like thirty seconds. Screw it, I clap along. I mean hell, other’s text as they go, dial up friends, drink coffee and eat an Egg McMuffin at the same time.. I can clap with Archie.. Screw you!
Hands off… Private. Precious. MINE. Back off mister.. Rules, regulations.
I’ve gotta hand it to you.. Said by someone formally in doubt of you. They had no faith in you/your hands… and after observance, they open their mouth to appreciate you/your hands.
Handshake. Wow, do these vary as do people. There’s a little bastard I see at the watering hole I attend who pours concrete for a living - he truthfully damn near breaks my hand each and every time we say hello to each other.. Then there’s the limp wrist, squeaky soft handshake where you’re left with “is this person gay” or “please lead me to the closest sink so I can wash my hands.” I reckon we oughta not judge by handshakes - but we do. Of late, I’ve tried, when meeting someone for the first time - to add a second hand upon their hand to relate hopefully I’m genuine in welcoming them. (Victor, that was lame. Who are you to pedastol yourself?)
Handouts. We all remember these as kids. Unfortunately, we all know them too well as parents.
Hand-me-downs… HOW DARE YOU MOCK MY WARDROBE. WHY I PAID 6 WHOLE DOLLARS FOR THIS WINTER COAT AT THE THRIFT STORE. And if you’re Catholic, please don’t swat me… you KNOW hand-me-downs. Family of 9 kids grew up next to me. I swear I saw the same paira jeans in 1977 that I saw in 1961.
Busy hands. The entrepreneurs dream. The school teacher’s dream. The mom’s dream. The fitty-five yr old internet dating pervert’s dreams.
Hand it over… Mebbe someone had just seenya steal…. Mebbe mom was asking for the toy you’d been forbidden to play with... Or dad’s Playboy you’d stolen at age 12. Mebbe a 17 yr old wanting their class ring back. Mebbe heard by a sugar daddy. Maybe a cop asking for your keys.
Talking hands. My cousin, at one time, was the basketball coach for the Missouri School for the Deaf. I had the pleasure of attending many games. If you landed from Mars, weren’t aware of speech, you would think “these are some of the most normal people on the planet.” I knew of speech, yet I too felt “these are some of the most normal people on the planet.” I think since once sense was lost - the others were so, so keen. It was kids, being kids, doing everything kids do. Sometimes, when my cousin the coach would get upset with the kids during a timeout, they’d turn their heads to they couldn’t see his hands reprimanding them!
There’s “The Hand” by Oliver Stone.. Hand tools… Handy man.. Hand bags.. .Handguns.. Hand grenades.. Hand hygiene… Hand washing… Broken hands.. The hand truck.. Hand-carved… Handmade.. Hand-painted.. A way to measure horses.. Handbooks.. Hand cream.. Poker hands.. Hired hands.. Palm hand readings.. Hand mixers.. Hand warmers.. Hand saws.. Second hand… Second hand smoke.. Hand puppets..
Hella hand stuff. I gotta hand it to you for lasting thru all that crap. No clapping please. (Victor, be for real.) I’d do the current hand/knuckle thing if I could (but it hurts).. The high five is passé’... but I’d happily, for old time sake, pat ur butt with my hand. Show of hands who’d let me? Come on, handouts are ok.
We never even mentioned holding hands. Damnit. So I waive adieu… Point to say thanks.. Extend my hand out to say thanks. Hey, don’t let the boss have the upper hand. Me thinks you can handle whatever comes your way.
Victor, that was the dumbest blog you’ve ever done. You’re gonna have to spiff it up to keep people occasionally stopping by. Yeah, you got it. Tomorrow we’ll focus on sphincters. Deal?
Love, Victurd.
Well, since u suggested, let’s talk hands.
Hands are (is?) an interesting topic. You’re in good hands with Allstate. Comforted. Insured. No worry.
He was handsy. Ahm, like he was way more into the relationship from the get go than thou, thus, you had to fend off his hands with ur hands.
Lenda helping hand. Could be a neighbor, a relative, a buddy who’s moving again and you’d prayed he’d somehow lost your phone number. Someone who’s fallen. A disaster.
Buddy o’ mine. His 16 year old stepson. He was in trouble (again) for something-or-other. When Stepfather stepped to plate to present speech, he was met with an open hand, and the comment “Talk to the hand, because the ear's not listening.” So, sadly, he brought that saying to work and we were stuck listening to it until he decided to try his hand at another occupation.
Good hands. Twofold. Could be athletics, to describe a catcher in baseball, or a swift wide receiver in football who catches anything in or around him. Mostly though, used by the female, to describe the male in her life’s massage this/massage that/massage everything techniques. Good hands.
Hands = addresses. Again, several fold. At work, we have this fancified electronic time clock thing that initially “remembers” what our palm looks like - so, we must present it to clock in, and to clock out. There’s no clocking in or out for your buddy, we’re screwed. We gotta guy who hated this invasion - so- he brought in a rubberized hand, and attempted to utilize that because he couldn’t believe the audacity of the company to invade his privacy and ‘record’ his palm. Didn’t work, but you gotta hand it to him for trying.
Large hands, small hands, mediocre hands. I’ve heard rumors, regarding the male species, there’s distinct correlation between thumb size and “you know” size. Perverts, you’re gonna look from now on ain’tya? And…. Quit peeking at my thumbs. I happen to love all four inches of thumbs affixed to the enda my hand.
A show of hands.. This could be an answer to the 2nd grade teacher’s question “who studied their spelling words over the weekend?” or perhaps, in answer to a summer lunch question around our round concrete table by the preverts I work with “who’s slept with someone on their first date?”…
The high five... It’s obsolete now… The high five’s predecessor was the hand smack on the butt to acknowledge a good play, or good effort. When the first high five was ever given, this went by the wayside… it’s now been replaced by the “fist” of the hand touched by the fist of your teammate…
Clap your hands.. To show appreciation.. Acknowledge a good play.. Reward a fine artist.. Or simply, to be fitty-five driving in the car and you clap along with Archie Bell and Drells from Houston, Texas who “We don’t only sing, but we dance just as good as we want” and then ya got that refrain where they clap for like thirty seconds. Screw it, I clap along. I mean hell, other’s text as they go, dial up friends, drink coffee and eat an Egg McMuffin at the same time.. I can clap with Archie.. Screw you!
Hands off… Private. Precious. MINE. Back off mister.. Rules, regulations.
I’ve gotta hand it to you.. Said by someone formally in doubt of you. They had no faith in you/your hands… and after observance, they open their mouth to appreciate you/your hands.
Handshake. Wow, do these vary as do people. There’s a little bastard I see at the watering hole I attend who pours concrete for a living - he truthfully damn near breaks my hand each and every time we say hello to each other.. Then there’s the limp wrist, squeaky soft handshake where you’re left with “is this person gay” or “please lead me to the closest sink so I can wash my hands.” I reckon we oughta not judge by handshakes - but we do. Of late, I’ve tried, when meeting someone for the first time - to add a second hand upon their hand to relate hopefully I’m genuine in welcoming them. (Victor, that was lame. Who are you to pedastol yourself?)
Handouts. We all remember these as kids. Unfortunately, we all know them too well as parents.
Hand-me-downs… HOW DARE YOU MOCK MY WARDROBE. WHY I PAID 6 WHOLE DOLLARS FOR THIS WINTER COAT AT THE THRIFT STORE. And if you’re Catholic, please don’t swat me… you KNOW hand-me-downs. Family of 9 kids grew up next to me. I swear I saw the same paira jeans in 1977 that I saw in 1961.
Busy hands. The entrepreneurs dream. The school teacher’s dream. The mom’s dream. The fitty-five yr old internet dating pervert’s dreams.
Hand it over… Mebbe someone had just seenya steal…. Mebbe mom was asking for the toy you’d been forbidden to play with... Or dad’s Playboy you’d stolen at age 12. Mebbe a 17 yr old wanting their class ring back. Mebbe heard by a sugar daddy. Maybe a cop asking for your keys.
Talking hands. My cousin, at one time, was the basketball coach for the Missouri School for the Deaf. I had the pleasure of attending many games. If you landed from Mars, weren’t aware of speech, you would think “these are some of the most normal people on the planet.” I knew of speech, yet I too felt “these are some of the most normal people on the planet.” I think since once sense was lost - the others were so, so keen. It was kids, being kids, doing everything kids do. Sometimes, when my cousin the coach would get upset with the kids during a timeout, they’d turn their heads to they couldn’t see his hands reprimanding them!
There’s “The Hand” by Oliver Stone.. Hand tools… Handy man.. Hand bags.. .Handguns.. Hand grenades.. Hand hygiene… Hand washing… Broken hands.. The hand truck.. Hand-carved… Handmade.. Hand-painted.. A way to measure horses.. Handbooks.. Hand cream.. Poker hands.. Hired hands.. Palm hand readings.. Hand mixers.. Hand warmers.. Hand saws.. Second hand… Second hand smoke.. Hand puppets..
Hella hand stuff. I gotta hand it to you for lasting thru all that crap. No clapping please. (Victor, be for real.) I’d do the current hand/knuckle thing if I could (but it hurts).. The high five is passé’... but I’d happily, for old time sake, pat ur butt with my hand. Show of hands who’d let me? Come on, handouts are ok.
We never even mentioned holding hands. Damnit. So I waive adieu… Point to say thanks.. Extend my hand out to say thanks. Hey, don’t let the boss have the upper hand. Me thinks you can handle whatever comes your way.
Victor, that was the dumbest blog you’ve ever done. You’re gonna have to spiff it up to keep people occasionally stopping by. Yeah, you got it. Tomorrow we’ll focus on sphincters. Deal?
Love, Victurd.
Monday, January 28, 2008
I’ve come to the conclusion we’re all just different…
Intimacy… What a broad subject. No, not “broad” as in chicky... Well, it is that too, but broad as in vast.
To me it’s weird I find myself asking about this, or “studying” it, at age 55.
I guess there are some basic types.. Casual comes to mind… I am far, far, from being a one-nighter kinda guy - but close your ears - it has happened. I know some, males AND females, that simply enjoy intimacy so - they have it as casually as if it were like going to the grocery store. Again, I’ve been guilty - but, I’m of the opine there’s a connection between the brain and the body - but again, thus the assessment “we’re all just different.’
Casual and partnered. There’s one I know that has an out of state love, and fairly frequent in-state lovERS. Yes, I’ve know married that are deeply attached to their mates - but perhaps occasionally they wander - and surely for various reasons.
The “GD I can’t catch my breath” intimacy. This is kinda like “caught up in the moment” stuff. It might be the 4th date… It might be your two week anniversary.. Hell, it might be Night #1. I liken it to getting your diploma the first day of college, and then allofasudden you have to work bassackwards to toil, study, observe, prepare, sweat, find comfort, shake the newness, decide “is this REALLY what I wanna study?”… Many change majors at this point, but they’ll never forget this moment. It’s a real skewed look at a “relationship.”
Exclusive, no certificate or live-in. This is where it gets dangerous. He doesn’t ‘bring it out’ anywhere else, and her legs only open for him. I believe, some tend to wander, or wonder about wandering simply due to “you can’t have that.” Another question oft asked in this scenario “is THIS what I want? All I want? Forever?” Some are scared off. Some hookup forever. Some cheat and fall back to casual and partnered.
Love. In true love, there is seemingly no want of anyone else. Again, with the differences in people - the chronological time this continues varies. The lucky ones continue in this mode until death. With our divorce rate at 50%, there are obviously those that somehow at some point think differently after saying a vow. There are many contributing factors, and sure, I realize there are “two sides to every board” - but again.. Differences in people… and it’s the brain and bod thing again.
So when do you start?. Some, soon after.. A friend I knew, her son told her after three months of observation “Mom, you better start giving it up.” Expectations? And again, I’ve heard “the six month rule.” We are all unique, all different.
It takes the miracle of having two people having each’s brain and bod in sync, and the wherewithal to know “shit happens.. Don’t wander… work it out.” Unfortunately, a very minority of the relationships out there are so lucky.
I was parked today awaiting my son to get off the bus from downtown. The bus stop is at the local bowling alley. A guy pulled up in front of the bowling alley, stopped, let himself out, his wife got out of the passenger side, they crossed paths going opposite directions - and absolutely no interaction. No touch. No kiss. Minimally something verbal - nope. Nothing. It made me wonder where they’re at intimately in life - and if they have any idea they perhaps take things for granted.
Intimacy is wonderful, scary, can be an end, can be a beginning, can be a “time share”, can be a “temp job.”
Like eggs I guess… easy… over easy.. Scrambled… omelet (encompassing each other.)
We ask all kindsa questions… about family… about job.. About children… about likes… about dislikes…about dreams… about hopes… do we ever reach the point of comfort where we ask “where are you at intimately”? I guess if the guy asks that, it’s assumed if she answers he won’t have ears to anything other than “soon”. If the girl asks it, we men are piggies, and we’ll white lie our way down the zipper line. Trust me. Or don’t.
So. We’re all different. We all enjoy intimacy. We all seem to have a different take on intimacy. Do we ever know if the two “views from the shoes” coincide? And if they do, do we ever know if one day they’ll Imelda Marcos “I want a different pair of shoes”? We don’t.
I guess that’s what makes the “brain and bod” quest so unique. So special. So wrong. So improper. So early. So “I never thought we’d get here.” So “I’m glad u like me but why do you like him/her too?”…
I’ve just written sixteen GD paragraphs on intimacy, and I feel I’m fulla way more questions than when I ever started.
Summarizing. Can u summarize intimacy? I think u can kinda. It’s about brain and bod. Synchronization. Compromise. And luck.
I have no funny ending. Sorry. Intimately yours, Victurd.
To me it’s weird I find myself asking about this, or “studying” it, at age 55.
I guess there are some basic types.. Casual comes to mind… I am far, far, from being a one-nighter kinda guy - but close your ears - it has happened. I know some, males AND females, that simply enjoy intimacy so - they have it as casually as if it were like going to the grocery store. Again, I’ve been guilty - but, I’m of the opine there’s a connection between the brain and the body - but again, thus the assessment “we’re all just different.’
Casual and partnered. There’s one I know that has an out of state love, and fairly frequent in-state lovERS. Yes, I’ve know married that are deeply attached to their mates - but perhaps occasionally they wander - and surely for various reasons.
The “GD I can’t catch my breath” intimacy. This is kinda like “caught up in the moment” stuff. It might be the 4th date… It might be your two week anniversary.. Hell, it might be Night #1. I liken it to getting your diploma the first day of college, and then allofasudden you have to work bassackwards to toil, study, observe, prepare, sweat, find comfort, shake the newness, decide “is this REALLY what I wanna study?”… Many change majors at this point, but they’ll never forget this moment. It’s a real skewed look at a “relationship.”
Exclusive, no certificate or live-in. This is where it gets dangerous. He doesn’t ‘bring it out’ anywhere else, and her legs only open for him. I believe, some tend to wander, or wonder about wandering simply due to “you can’t have that.” Another question oft asked in this scenario “is THIS what I want? All I want? Forever?” Some are scared off. Some hookup forever. Some cheat and fall back to casual and partnered.
Love. In true love, there is seemingly no want of anyone else. Again, with the differences in people - the chronological time this continues varies. The lucky ones continue in this mode until death. With our divorce rate at 50%, there are obviously those that somehow at some point think differently after saying a vow. There are many contributing factors, and sure, I realize there are “two sides to every board” - but again.. Differences in people… and it’s the brain and bod thing again.
So when do you start?. Some, soon after.. A friend I knew, her son told her after three months of observation “Mom, you better start giving it up.” Expectations? And again, I’ve heard “the six month rule.” We are all unique, all different.
It takes the miracle of having two people having each’s brain and bod in sync, and the wherewithal to know “shit happens.. Don’t wander… work it out.” Unfortunately, a very minority of the relationships out there are so lucky.
I was parked today awaiting my son to get off the bus from downtown. The bus stop is at the local bowling alley. A guy pulled up in front of the bowling alley, stopped, let himself out, his wife got out of the passenger side, they crossed paths going opposite directions - and absolutely no interaction. No touch. No kiss. Minimally something verbal - nope. Nothing. It made me wonder where they’re at intimately in life - and if they have any idea they perhaps take things for granted.
Intimacy is wonderful, scary, can be an end, can be a beginning, can be a “time share”, can be a “temp job.”
Like eggs I guess… easy… over easy.. Scrambled… omelet (encompassing each other.)
We ask all kindsa questions… about family… about job.. About children… about likes… about dislikes…about dreams… about hopes… do we ever reach the point of comfort where we ask “where are you at intimately”? I guess if the guy asks that, it’s assumed if she answers he won’t have ears to anything other than “soon”. If the girl asks it, we men are piggies, and we’ll white lie our way down the zipper line. Trust me. Or don’t.
So. We’re all different. We all enjoy intimacy. We all seem to have a different take on intimacy. Do we ever know if the two “views from the shoes” coincide? And if they do, do we ever know if one day they’ll Imelda Marcos “I want a different pair of shoes”? We don’t.
I guess that’s what makes the “brain and bod” quest so unique. So special. So wrong. So improper. So early. So “I never thought we’d get here.” So “I’m glad u like me but why do you like him/her too?”…
I’ve just written sixteen GD paragraphs on intimacy, and I feel I’m fulla way more questions than when I ever started.
Summarizing. Can u summarize intimacy? I think u can kinda. It’s about brain and bod. Synchronization. Compromise. And luck.
I have no funny ending. Sorry. Intimately yours, Victurd.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Sometimes the hurried’er we go, the behind’er we get.…
You must be 18 to enter, sometimes this Victor person says things that are a little “off color”, enter at ur own risk.
Ole Walt is in trouble. Seems, back during a 2003 broadcast of “NYPD Blue”, 52 ABC stations (owned by Disney Co.) showed a shower scene where a boy surprises a woman as she prepares to take a shower.
A $1.4 million dollar fine has been proposed. The scene depicted “multiple close-up views of the woman’s ‘nude buttocks’ “ according to an agency order issued last week.
FCC’s definition of indecent content requires that the broadcast “depicts or describes sexual or excretory activities” in a “patently offensive way” and is aired between 6am and 10pm.
The agency said the show was indecent because “it depicts sexual organs and excretory organs - specifically an adult woman’s buttocks.”
The FCC has rejected the network’s argument that “the buttocks are not a sexual organ.”
You would think ABC would have done a little history check on the matter. You see, in 1993 (The Newlywed Game, ABC) Bob Eubanks asked a female contestant “What’s the most unusual place you’ve ever made whoopee?”… the contestant responded, “That would be up the butt, Bob.” Hehe.
For grins - when the husband came out, same question for them to hopefully earn points. His answer “in the sink.”… “I’m sorry, your wife said “in the butt.”… “Damn,” he retorted, “I almost said that.” The end.
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Dead Satellite may crash to earth. A large US spy satellite has lost power and may hit Earth in about a month. It is not known where the satellite could land. Damn the luck it won’t be football season then… Do u think the insurance companies (u know, like when you wreck your car) would give us a new football team if it happened to land upon the Kansas City Chiefs?
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Seen two crows flying South the other day. One was way, way aheada the other. It conjured up mems of many things. I had a wonderful aunt who was quitea talker - and her patient hubby, found it rare he could get a word in edgewise, ie, keep up. Now she’s gone, and he’s lost.
It reminded me of Frank Martin, current Kansas State basketball coach. You haveta like the guy. He was a chubby gym rat as a kid, but each and every team he tried out for cut him. He was way behind in starting his career. His love for the game led him to even further absorb himself in basketball - taking in hella games, clinics, and he read virtually every book on the subject. Finally a high school junior varsity job… he inched closer in eventually becoming the varsity coach… an assistant college coach… and finally, some 22 years later - he’s now the K-State Head Coach. The chubby kid caught up.
Reid and Soanya. Been awhile since we’ve talked of them. These are the two that are attempting to break the Word Record for continuous sailing without stop. The record is 600+ days, they’re somewhere in the Southern Ocean, at 280 days and counting. Their goal is 1,000 days - thus, they’re website 1000days.net. Reid is like 53, Soanya is 23. So I thought of her as the leading crow, and him trying to keep up. Seems I’ve under estimated him - as listening to all he does to keep the schooner afloat and going in the right direction - tires me to think of it. Soanya, having seasickness virtually 60% of the time, appears to now be the lagging crow.
Me. For twenty plus years, was the “8 year older” hubby. I felt like that back crow. I’d getup every morning and see how much older I looked than her. I planta one day catchup to another ‘crow’, fly side by side. Like my uncle. Like Frank, his passion. Like Reid, his wherewithal.
And besides. I’ve always enjoyed the view from behind. Beats the hell outta the sink.
Happy day,
Love Victurd
Ole Walt is in trouble. Seems, back during a 2003 broadcast of “NYPD Blue”, 52 ABC stations (owned by Disney Co.) showed a shower scene where a boy surprises a woman as she prepares to take a shower.
A $1.4 million dollar fine has been proposed. The scene depicted “multiple close-up views of the woman’s ‘nude buttocks’ “ according to an agency order issued last week.
FCC’s definition of indecent content requires that the broadcast “depicts or describes sexual or excretory activities” in a “patently offensive way” and is aired between 6am and 10pm.
The agency said the show was indecent because “it depicts sexual organs and excretory organs - specifically an adult woman’s buttocks.”
The FCC has rejected the network’s argument that “the buttocks are not a sexual organ.”
You would think ABC would have done a little history check on the matter. You see, in 1993 (The Newlywed Game, ABC) Bob Eubanks asked a female contestant “What’s the most unusual place you’ve ever made whoopee?”… the contestant responded, “That would be up the butt, Bob.” Hehe.
For grins - when the husband came out, same question for them to hopefully earn points. His answer “in the sink.”… “I’m sorry, your wife said “in the butt.”… “Damn,” he retorted, “I almost said that.” The end.
------------------------
Dead Satellite may crash to earth. A large US spy satellite has lost power and may hit Earth in about a month. It is not known where the satellite could land. Damn the luck it won’t be football season then… Do u think the insurance companies (u know, like when you wreck your car) would give us a new football team if it happened to land upon the Kansas City Chiefs?
------------------------
Seen two crows flying South the other day. One was way, way aheada the other. It conjured up mems of many things. I had a wonderful aunt who was quitea talker - and her patient hubby, found it rare he could get a word in edgewise, ie, keep up. Now she’s gone, and he’s lost.
It reminded me of Frank Martin, current Kansas State basketball coach. You haveta like the guy. He was a chubby gym rat as a kid, but each and every team he tried out for cut him. He was way behind in starting his career. His love for the game led him to even further absorb himself in basketball - taking in hella games, clinics, and he read virtually every book on the subject. Finally a high school junior varsity job… he inched closer in eventually becoming the varsity coach… an assistant college coach… and finally, some 22 years later - he’s now the K-State Head Coach. The chubby kid caught up.
Reid and Soanya. Been awhile since we’ve talked of them. These are the two that are attempting to break the Word Record for continuous sailing without stop. The record is 600+ days, they’re somewhere in the Southern Ocean, at 280 days and counting. Their goal is 1,000 days - thus, they’re website 1000days.net. Reid is like 53, Soanya is 23. So I thought of her as the leading crow, and him trying to keep up. Seems I’ve under estimated him - as listening to all he does to keep the schooner afloat and going in the right direction - tires me to think of it. Soanya, having seasickness virtually 60% of the time, appears to now be the lagging crow.
Me. For twenty plus years, was the “8 year older” hubby. I felt like that back crow. I’d getup every morning and see how much older I looked than her. I planta one day catchup to another ‘crow’, fly side by side. Like my uncle. Like Frank, his passion. Like Reid, his wherewithal.
And besides. I’ve always enjoyed the view from behind. Beats the hell outta the sink.
Happy day,
Love Victurd
Saturday, January 26, 2008
What's so bad abou tit.....
Nuttin’ really….
Kinda an El Boro weekend thus far… Same ole same ole… Needs me some life here!
I found it somewhat humorous - I’d seen a gal on MySpace. Truly gorgeous, so, I sent an email and said just that. Within minutes, she’d clicked the “friend” thing - and we winged a few emails back and forth.
I really ain’t gots nothing against people espousing their religious beliefs, but too I find doing ANYTHING that’s not done in moderation mebbe “not so good.” Her website was completely adorned with Biblical sayings.. Religious pictures.. Her emails had Bible Quotes. Again, all well and fine, just the overindulging thingy ain’t my cup of beer.
So anyways… within minutes after the “2 tits, 4 tits, 6 tit’s a dollar” blog was posted, she vanished! No longer a friend - her click did it.
I hope I don’t step on toes here. Don’t REAL religious people like boobies too? What’s so bad abou tit? Hehe. If (well, Ok reckon I am/can be) I’m the sinner… ain’t it “hate the sin, love the sinner?”..
Are the lights always off when they “you know”? Is the function of becoming one simply for the purpose of creation? What happens after menopause/manopause?
Ok, Victor, you’ve done it again. When someone doesn’t share the same principles, beliefs - and they run - why must you always diss them here after? Ok, I apologize, my boob oo. I promise to try to never le tit happen again.
On-a kinda similar subject - if ye are out there, and ye isn’t having intimacy - ain’t it awful? Oh, I agree, intimacy with “the one” is heaven - and yes, it’s very selfish to pretend simply for the reward of sex.
It’s kinda like “I miss playing softball.” No, it ain’t even close to softball, but you know - it’s something I can’t (ain’t) have/having now - but I guess iT rEaLlY hAsN’t AfFeCtEd me.
I love seeing others in public (no, mind outta gutter, not where I was going).. I love seeing others in public worshipping their mate - and I wonder why that end is so difficult? I for sure ain’t Huey Lewis, but I googled “chopped liver” and I don’t look like that either!
Pity party here? It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.. Hehe... No… No pity party. If anything, there’s excitement of tomorrow. Getting to know someone so intimately you can shave whilst they pee is special. (Run religious girl, RUN!)…
I miss the cologne, the smiles, the touch, the conversations, the laughs, the “thinking the same thing at the very same moment”… Inside jokes. Being around others and knowing in advance their opine of said others.
Having someone to talk to in the car besides the empty GD seatbelt. Cranking the music/singing and making a complete idiot outta myself/ourself and the other laughing about it - or at least putting up with it.
Writing a love note. Giving a small gift for no reason at all. Finding comfort when you hear the door open, or the garage door go up. Hearing the familiar voice on the phone…
Again, I don’t feel sorry for me… or for you… I just live with excitement that I know the day will come. If anyone’s here and you already got all that crap - please know how special it is. A simple little thing like just reaching across the bed for a loving touch must not be taken for granted.
Apologies this ain’t the funny-ha-ha kinda blog - but it’s a happy one, for it is one of hope. One of appreciation. One of “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”
I think we’ve all had opportunities, our moments - and on several occasions I really thought I was there. Dunno. Guess we’re all too GD picky the older we get. I’ve not had the feel of “when she leaves the house, I can’t wait until she returns.” It’s hard (at least for me) to attain that - but once I do, I will never ever forget this/these times - and it will be THE BIGGEST thing in my life.
Churchgoer is good too… would probably even be good for me too. As long as it ain’t always light’s out and “please leave the bathroom whilst I pee” and not “quit looking at my boobies, they’re for nutritional purpose only.” Hehe.
Victor, you’re nuts. Yes I know. This road has been rougher than Seven Hills Road, but agin’, the drive will be awesome once it gets here. Good luck in finding your ride. Your “shotgun passenger”.
I too promise to continue blogging… it just might take me a little whilst longer.. U see, I’d have to stop and peek every time she took her bra on or off. Hehe. Heck, even braless works, but I think we already discussed that.
I pray for your passion to arrive as well… good luck in your trek of finding ‘the one’. No doubt abou tit, we will. Love, Victurd.
Kinda an El Boro weekend thus far… Same ole same ole… Needs me some life here!
I found it somewhat humorous - I’d seen a gal on MySpace. Truly gorgeous, so, I sent an email and said just that. Within minutes, she’d clicked the “friend” thing - and we winged a few emails back and forth.
I really ain’t gots nothing against people espousing their religious beliefs, but too I find doing ANYTHING that’s not done in moderation mebbe “not so good.” Her website was completely adorned with Biblical sayings.. Religious pictures.. Her emails had Bible Quotes. Again, all well and fine, just the overindulging thingy ain’t my cup of beer.
So anyways… within minutes after the “2 tits, 4 tits, 6 tit’s a dollar” blog was posted, she vanished! No longer a friend - her click did it.
I hope I don’t step on toes here. Don’t REAL religious people like boobies too? What’s so bad abou tit? Hehe. If (well, Ok reckon I am/can be) I’m the sinner… ain’t it “hate the sin, love the sinner?”..
Are the lights always off when they “you know”? Is the function of becoming one simply for the purpose of creation? What happens after menopause/manopause?
Ok, Victor, you’ve done it again. When someone doesn’t share the same principles, beliefs - and they run - why must you always diss them here after? Ok, I apologize, my boob oo. I promise to try to never le tit happen again.
On-a kinda similar subject - if ye are out there, and ye isn’t having intimacy - ain’t it awful? Oh, I agree, intimacy with “the one” is heaven - and yes, it’s very selfish to pretend simply for the reward of sex.
It’s kinda like “I miss playing softball.” No, it ain’t even close to softball, but you know - it’s something I can’t (ain’t) have/having now - but I guess iT rEaLlY hAsN’t AfFeCtEd me.
I love seeing others in public (no, mind outta gutter, not where I was going).. I love seeing others in public worshipping their mate - and I wonder why that end is so difficult? I for sure ain’t Huey Lewis, but I googled “chopped liver” and I don’t look like that either!
Pity party here? It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.. Hehe... No… No pity party. If anything, there’s excitement of tomorrow. Getting to know someone so intimately you can shave whilst they pee is special. (Run religious girl, RUN!)…
I miss the cologne, the smiles, the touch, the conversations, the laughs, the “thinking the same thing at the very same moment”… Inside jokes. Being around others and knowing in advance their opine of said others.
Having someone to talk to in the car besides the empty GD seatbelt. Cranking the music/singing and making a complete idiot outta myself/ourself and the other laughing about it - or at least putting up with it.
Writing a love note. Giving a small gift for no reason at all. Finding comfort when you hear the door open, or the garage door go up. Hearing the familiar voice on the phone…
Again, I don’t feel sorry for me… or for you… I just live with excitement that I know the day will come. If anyone’s here and you already got all that crap - please know how special it is. A simple little thing like just reaching across the bed for a loving touch must not be taken for granted.
Apologies this ain’t the funny-ha-ha kinda blog - but it’s a happy one, for it is one of hope. One of appreciation. One of “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”
I think we’ve all had opportunities, our moments - and on several occasions I really thought I was there. Dunno. Guess we’re all too GD picky the older we get. I’ve not had the feel of “when she leaves the house, I can’t wait until she returns.” It’s hard (at least for me) to attain that - but once I do, I will never ever forget this/these times - and it will be THE BIGGEST thing in my life.
Churchgoer is good too… would probably even be good for me too. As long as it ain’t always light’s out and “please leave the bathroom whilst I pee” and not “quit looking at my boobies, they’re for nutritional purpose only.” Hehe.
Victor, you’re nuts. Yes I know. This road has been rougher than Seven Hills Road, but agin’, the drive will be awesome once it gets here. Good luck in finding your ride. Your “shotgun passenger”.
I too promise to continue blogging… it just might take me a little whilst longer.. U see, I’d have to stop and peek every time she took her bra on or off. Hehe. Heck, even braless works, but I think we already discussed that.
I pray for your passion to arrive as well… good luck in your trek of finding ‘the one’. No doubt abou tit, we will. Love, Victurd.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
I struggled, for what seemed like an hour, with all my might to get back to the top of the water…
Lake Jacomo… Circa 1970-something… Ten or twelve punks, 48 or so beers… and one hugeass cliff/bluff…
It was not a big lake - but not bad… close to home.. Known for parties of snotnoses our age… a Midsummer day… 80’s… beautiful… it’s what a kid lives for.. Summer.. No “have to’s”.. .freedom…
The entire 27 minute drive we’d talked about the bluffs.. And who would be first to go off… “OF COURSE I WILL BE” said the oldest in the group… He’d been a diver on the High School Swim Team - and we had no reason to debate…. I meekly kept quiet in the back right-hand corner, hoping I didn’t have to muster up the necessary fortitude to jump - or be called queer, wimp, whatever the going diss was back then..
So… we’re the the picnic table atop the bluffs… From atop, it looked to be 100 feet down to the water… they were probably only 45-50’ high, but everything looks bigger when you’re younger, even Cindy Lou’s boobies..
By now we’re into our third beer… “So Kim (the diver)… you’re up.” With trepidation he snuck to the edge.. Peered over… and the realization had now come “this ain’t the high dive at William Jewell College”… well no shit Sherlock, it ain’t…
This pacing back and forth to the edge went on for like five minutes… I think I’d tapped into my fourth beer by now... And I dunno whatinthehell overcame me… “GIT OUTTA MY WAY!”.. up… to… out… oh shit… down… and down… and down…
I wasn’t that greata swimmer, but hell, the impact of the water was prolly gonna kill me anyways… it didn’t.. (but it did hurt).. And down, down, down I went. When my momentum had stopped, and I was one entire county away from the top of the water - it was one of the most eerie feelings I’ve ever had… WILL I MAKE IT TO THE TOP BEFORE MY BREATH RUNS OUT?
Flailing and swooshing my arms - I did my level best to move upward as rapidly and swiftly as I could… It seemed though, to take as long as a Naomi Johnson lecture on The Mexican American War.. Periodically opening my eyes, all I saw was brown-greenish stuff… FINALLY, I saw the sun into the water.. I was close.. I was overly ready to exhale…
I made it… to the top… somea the drunk bastards atop the bluff even clapped.. Whew.. I’d shown a little fortitude (stupidity)… I was now, somehow, tough.
Hey, what’s that siren noise? Oh shit. Lake Patrol. Seems Barney had been eyeballing us - and was awaiting this moment. He motored up to me slowly, grabbed my arm, pulled me into the cop boat.. Proceeded to lecture about “don’t you know so-and-so in 1960-something did the same idiotic thing you did, hit her head, and she died right here?
“No sir, officer” Mr. Tough guy stated.. “I DIDN’T know that.. I’m truly remorseful.. I PROMISE I will never do that again.. You’re not going to arrest me are you?”
He could tell from our five minute little ten-horse ride that I was basically scared shitless, would never do the same again, and on that day he let me go… Whew…
Three days ago, hella pain in my side.. I mean hella.. Of course, along with this, wheezing/coughing.. With each cough, immense pain. I’m talking like mebbe the next kinda pain to childbirth.. Bendover pain…
So… I’m back in the depths of that water… A Mexican-American lecture away from the top - from knowing that “I’ll be Ok… it ain’t a tumor… it ain’t an ulcer... It isn’t kidney stones…is this where the appendix is” but I slowly peddle to the doc’s office… like three days later when I finally knew, I must.
“Tell me doc… I can take it... In fact I just did a blog on dyin’.. it’s all good.. I’ll go sit on the pitcher’s mound, I promise, even if it’s 20 below zero.”..
After answering 48 questions, having temp taken with yet another new method (probed this thingy on my forehead… what happened to the ear thing?)… I squinted as he gave me the news….
“You have chronic bronchitis... Close, and maybe even pneumonia… the immense pain you feel is because you’ve strained the muscles inbetween your rib cage.”
That’s it? I might still get to see the Royal’s in the playoffs someday? I might actually one day LIVE empty nest? I don’t needta go compute how much 14 carved letters in granite will cost? I may even love again?
I’d made it to the toppa the water… “I promise ‘officer’… I will one day visit with you about smoking cessation… I know my family’s history of heart trouble - like you say…”
So, I left that boat. $40 at CVS, $20 for the copay. Hella cheap to dispel rumors I was drowning. One day it will come. It does for all of us. I just wasn’t quite ready.
Life rocks. The highs - like the 4-beer attitude “Git outta my way”.. the flying over the edge.. The eagle-like feel on the way down… the victory of making back to the top of the water… the momentary “tough” feel… the days with my coworkers.. The nights with my cronies.. The good “but lecturing” news from the doc.
Hope u never experience the depths of that water.. Chances are, in life we all do… some struggles seem like they’ll never end.. but they do.. Friends help… family helps… a love for life helps… sometimes, even that 4th beer helps…
Life is short, swim hard. Love, Victurd.
It was not a big lake - but not bad… close to home.. Known for parties of snotnoses our age… a Midsummer day… 80’s… beautiful… it’s what a kid lives for.. Summer.. No “have to’s”.. .freedom…
The entire 27 minute drive we’d talked about the bluffs.. And who would be first to go off… “OF COURSE I WILL BE” said the oldest in the group… He’d been a diver on the High School Swim Team - and we had no reason to debate…. I meekly kept quiet in the back right-hand corner, hoping I didn’t have to muster up the necessary fortitude to jump - or be called queer, wimp, whatever the going diss was back then..
So… we’re the the picnic table atop the bluffs… From atop, it looked to be 100 feet down to the water… they were probably only 45-50’ high, but everything looks bigger when you’re younger, even Cindy Lou’s boobies..
By now we’re into our third beer… “So Kim (the diver)… you’re up.” With trepidation he snuck to the edge.. Peered over… and the realization had now come “this ain’t the high dive at William Jewell College”… well no shit Sherlock, it ain’t…
This pacing back and forth to the edge went on for like five minutes… I think I’d tapped into my fourth beer by now... And I dunno whatinthehell overcame me… “GIT OUTTA MY WAY!”.. up… to… out… oh shit… down… and down… and down…
I wasn’t that greata swimmer, but hell, the impact of the water was prolly gonna kill me anyways… it didn’t.. (but it did hurt).. And down, down, down I went. When my momentum had stopped, and I was one entire county away from the top of the water - it was one of the most eerie feelings I’ve ever had… WILL I MAKE IT TO THE TOP BEFORE MY BREATH RUNS OUT?
Flailing and swooshing my arms - I did my level best to move upward as rapidly and swiftly as I could… It seemed though, to take as long as a Naomi Johnson lecture on The Mexican American War.. Periodically opening my eyes, all I saw was brown-greenish stuff… FINALLY, I saw the sun into the water.. I was close.. I was overly ready to exhale…
I made it… to the top… somea the drunk bastards atop the bluff even clapped.. Whew.. I’d shown a little fortitude (stupidity)… I was now, somehow, tough.
Hey, what’s that siren noise? Oh shit. Lake Patrol. Seems Barney had been eyeballing us - and was awaiting this moment. He motored up to me slowly, grabbed my arm, pulled me into the cop boat.. Proceeded to lecture about “don’t you know so-and-so in 1960-something did the same idiotic thing you did, hit her head, and she died right here?
“No sir, officer” Mr. Tough guy stated.. “I DIDN’T know that.. I’m truly remorseful.. I PROMISE I will never do that again.. You’re not going to arrest me are you?”
He could tell from our five minute little ten-horse ride that I was basically scared shitless, would never do the same again, and on that day he let me go… Whew…
Three days ago, hella pain in my side.. I mean hella.. Of course, along with this, wheezing/coughing.. With each cough, immense pain. I’m talking like mebbe the next kinda pain to childbirth.. Bendover pain…
So… I’m back in the depths of that water… A Mexican-American lecture away from the top - from knowing that “I’ll be Ok… it ain’t a tumor… it ain’t an ulcer... It isn’t kidney stones…is this where the appendix is” but I slowly peddle to the doc’s office… like three days later when I finally knew, I must.
“Tell me doc… I can take it... In fact I just did a blog on dyin’.. it’s all good.. I’ll go sit on the pitcher’s mound, I promise, even if it’s 20 below zero.”..
After answering 48 questions, having temp taken with yet another new method (probed this thingy on my forehead… what happened to the ear thing?)… I squinted as he gave me the news….
“You have chronic bronchitis... Close, and maybe even pneumonia… the immense pain you feel is because you’ve strained the muscles inbetween your rib cage.”
That’s it? I might still get to see the Royal’s in the playoffs someday? I might actually one day LIVE empty nest? I don’t needta go compute how much 14 carved letters in granite will cost? I may even love again?
I’d made it to the toppa the water… “I promise ‘officer’… I will one day visit with you about smoking cessation… I know my family’s history of heart trouble - like you say…”
So, I left that boat. $40 at CVS, $20 for the copay. Hella cheap to dispel rumors I was drowning. One day it will come. It does for all of us. I just wasn’t quite ready.
Life rocks. The highs - like the 4-beer attitude “Git outta my way”.. the flying over the edge.. The eagle-like feel on the way down… the victory of making back to the top of the water… the momentary “tough” feel… the days with my coworkers.. The nights with my cronies.. The good “but lecturing” news from the doc.
Hope u never experience the depths of that water.. Chances are, in life we all do… some struggles seem like they’ll never end.. but they do.. Friends help… family helps… a love for life helps… sometimes, even that 4th beer helps…
Life is short, swim hard. Love, Victurd.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Harmony…
We ain’t there yet. I thought perhaps fit to use this day to look at the plight, the blight and the flight……… thanks for being here.
1517 trans-Atlantic slave trade begins
1619 Twenty African slaves arrive in Jamestown, VA
1641 Massachusetts becomes the first colony to legalize slavery.
1641 Maryland legally prohibits marriage between white women and black men.
1688 Pennsylvania Quakers pass an anti-slavery resolution.
1700 Slavery is legalized in Pennsylvania
1740 The Negro Act is passed in South Carolina. The act makes it illegal for slaves to gather in groups, earn money, learn to read, and raise food. The act permits owners to kill rebellious slaves.
1775 The first abolitionist society is organized.
1776 Vermont becomes the first colony to abolish slavery.
1780 Pennsylvania adopts a law that gradually emancipates slaves that are born after 1780 when they turn 28.
1793 The cotton gin is invented, which leads to expansion of slavery in the South.
1794 The slave trade between the US and other countries is prohibited by Congress.
1819 Slave trading is declared a capital offense by the US.
Same year: Blacks are prohibited from learning to read in Virginia.
1852 Uncle Tom’s Cabin, written by abolitionist Harriet Beecher Stowe, is published.
1857 The Dred Scott decision denies citizenship to all slaves, ex-slaves, and slave descendants.
1861 The Civil War begins.
1863 Lincoln issues the Emancipation Proclamation which frees all saves in the rebellion area.
1865 Slavery is abolished in all of the states by the 13th Amendment.
Confederate General Lee surrenders to General Grant in Virginia at the Appomattox Court House.
1865 Lincoln assassinated.
Various states inact Black Codes
1866 The Civil Rights Bill is enacted by Congress. Johnson vetoes the bill, but Congress overrides his veto. The Act gives blacks the rights and privileges of full citizenship. It counteracts Black Codes.
Emancipation is celebrated at the US capitol by 15,000 people.
1870 The 15th Amendment is enacted. It gives black males the right to vote. Despite this right, some Southern states add grandfather clauses to their state Constitutions to counter this new right.
Hiram Rhoades is the first black elected to the US Senate.
1881 The Tuskegee Institute is founded by former slaves Lewis Adams and George W. Campbell under the leadership of Booker T. Washington.
1896 The Supreme Court decides in the Plessy vs. Ferguson case that “separate but equal” satisfies the 14th Amendment which gives legal sanction to “Jim Crow” segregation laws.
1909 The NAACP is founded.
1919 “The Harlem Renaissance” a period of fifteen years when some of the most important and prolific writers, artists and musicians such as Zora Neale Hurston, Langston Hughes and Eugene O’Neill emerged in the African-American Community and took up residence in New York’s Harlem District.
1932 The Tuskegee Experiment, a forty year-long experiment in which 399 African-American men infected with Syphilis, near Tuskegee, Alabama are denied treatment in order to study the effects of the disease begins. The experiment is leaked to the press and is subsequently ended, but not until 1972.
1936 Track and Field star Jesse Owens becomes the first athlete to win four gold medals in the Olympic games (Held in Berlin).
1954 The US Supreme Court overturns the doctrine of “Separate but equal” in Brown v Board of Education, ruling that segregation is public schools is impermissible.
1955 Rosa Parks is arrested after she refused to give up her seat to a white passenger o n the city bus. The Montgomery Improvement Association, led by Dr Martin Luther King Jr organizes the Montgomery bus boycott, which lasts for over a year.
1956 After the U.S. Supreme Court affirms the District Court’s decision that segregation on buses is unconstitutional, the Montgomery buses are desegregated.
1960 Four black North Carolina Agricultural and Technical College students sit down at a segregated Woolworth lunch counter in Greensboro, North Carolina and wait to be served. This sparks sit-ins throughout numerous other southern cities.
1963 250,000 people gather at the Lincoln Memorial to participate in the March on Washington. Martin Luther Kind delivers his famous “I have a dream” speech.
1964 The Civil Rights Act of 1964 is signed by President Johnson. The Act makes it illegal to discriminate in employment and illegal to segregate public facilities. (Unfortunately, I remember bathrooms in the Fulton Courthouse that were labeled “White men”, “Colored Men”, “White women’ and “Colored women.”)
1967 Thurgood Marshall becomes the first black Supreme Court Justice.
1968 (April 4) Martin Luther King is shot and killed by James Earl Ray while standing on the balcony outside of his motel room.
(April 11) The Civil Rights Act of 1968 is passed, which makes it illegal to discriminate in the sale, rental and financing of housing.
1980 BET launched.
1986 Oprah Winfrey becomes the first African-American woman to host a nationally syndicated talk show…. Also, Martin Luther King Jr day is celebrated as a national federal holiday.
1989 General Colin Powell is appointed Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.. Becoming the first African-American to achieve the highest military ranking in the US Armed Forces.
1995 The Million Man March, organized by Louis Farrakhan, brings together thousands of African-Americans to the National Mall in Washington, DC. Despite the name, women are present in both the crowd and on the podium, including civil rights pioneer Rosa Parks.
I don’t know if ever in my lifetime I will see a world without discrimination. I am a child born in the 50’s. I am a lucky one. My parents detested inequality. Many aren’t so lucky, and unfortunately, some born in my era are even passing this down to their children. It’s incredulous to me people thought what they thought then. Above doesn’t begin to go into detail the atrocities that occurred…
"I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
Love, Victurd
1517 trans-Atlantic slave trade begins
1619 Twenty African slaves arrive in Jamestown, VA
1641 Massachusetts becomes the first colony to legalize slavery.
1641 Maryland legally prohibits marriage between white women and black men.
1688 Pennsylvania Quakers pass an anti-slavery resolution.
1700 Slavery is legalized in Pennsylvania
1740 The Negro Act is passed in South Carolina. The act makes it illegal for slaves to gather in groups, earn money, learn to read, and raise food. The act permits owners to kill rebellious slaves.
1775 The first abolitionist society is organized.
1776 Vermont becomes the first colony to abolish slavery.
1780 Pennsylvania adopts a law that gradually emancipates slaves that are born after 1780 when they turn 28.
1793 The cotton gin is invented, which leads to expansion of slavery in the South.
1794 The slave trade between the US and other countries is prohibited by Congress.
1819 Slave trading is declared a capital offense by the US.
Same year: Blacks are prohibited from learning to read in Virginia.
1852 Uncle Tom’s Cabin, written by abolitionist Harriet Beecher Stowe, is published.
1857 The Dred Scott decision denies citizenship to all slaves, ex-slaves, and slave descendants.
1861 The Civil War begins.
1863 Lincoln issues the Emancipation Proclamation which frees all saves in the rebellion area.
1865 Slavery is abolished in all of the states by the 13th Amendment.
Confederate General Lee surrenders to General Grant in Virginia at the Appomattox Court House.
1865 Lincoln assassinated.
Various states inact Black Codes
1866 The Civil Rights Bill is enacted by Congress. Johnson vetoes the bill, but Congress overrides his veto. The Act gives blacks the rights and privileges of full citizenship. It counteracts Black Codes.
Emancipation is celebrated at the US capitol by 15,000 people.
1870 The 15th Amendment is enacted. It gives black males the right to vote. Despite this right, some Southern states add grandfather clauses to their state Constitutions to counter this new right.
Hiram Rhoades is the first black elected to the US Senate.
1881 The Tuskegee Institute is founded by former slaves Lewis Adams and George W. Campbell under the leadership of Booker T. Washington.
1896 The Supreme Court decides in the Plessy vs. Ferguson case that “separate but equal” satisfies the 14th Amendment which gives legal sanction to “Jim Crow” segregation laws.
1909 The NAACP is founded.
1919 “The Harlem Renaissance” a period of fifteen years when some of the most important and prolific writers, artists and musicians such as Zora Neale Hurston, Langston Hughes and Eugene O’Neill emerged in the African-American Community and took up residence in New York’s Harlem District.
1932 The Tuskegee Experiment, a forty year-long experiment in which 399 African-American men infected with Syphilis, near Tuskegee, Alabama are denied treatment in order to study the effects of the disease begins. The experiment is leaked to the press and is subsequently ended, but not until 1972.
1936 Track and Field star Jesse Owens becomes the first athlete to win four gold medals in the Olympic games (Held in Berlin).
1954 The US Supreme Court overturns the doctrine of “Separate but equal” in Brown v Board of Education, ruling that segregation is public schools is impermissible.
1955 Rosa Parks is arrested after she refused to give up her seat to a white passenger o n the city bus. The Montgomery Improvement Association, led by Dr Martin Luther King Jr organizes the Montgomery bus boycott, which lasts for over a year.
1956 After the U.S. Supreme Court affirms the District Court’s decision that segregation on buses is unconstitutional, the Montgomery buses are desegregated.
1960 Four black North Carolina Agricultural and Technical College students sit down at a segregated Woolworth lunch counter in Greensboro, North Carolina and wait to be served. This sparks sit-ins throughout numerous other southern cities.
1963 250,000 people gather at the Lincoln Memorial to participate in the March on Washington. Martin Luther Kind delivers his famous “I have a dream” speech.
1964 The Civil Rights Act of 1964 is signed by President Johnson. The Act makes it illegal to discriminate in employment and illegal to segregate public facilities. (Unfortunately, I remember bathrooms in the Fulton Courthouse that were labeled “White men”, “Colored Men”, “White women’ and “Colored women.”)
1967 Thurgood Marshall becomes the first black Supreme Court Justice.
1968 (April 4) Martin Luther King is shot and killed by James Earl Ray while standing on the balcony outside of his motel room.
(April 11) The Civil Rights Act of 1968 is passed, which makes it illegal to discriminate in the sale, rental and financing of housing.
1980 BET launched.
1986 Oprah Winfrey becomes the first African-American woman to host a nationally syndicated talk show…. Also, Martin Luther King Jr day is celebrated as a national federal holiday.
1989 General Colin Powell is appointed Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.. Becoming the first African-American to achieve the highest military ranking in the US Armed Forces.
1995 The Million Man March, organized by Louis Farrakhan, brings together thousands of African-Americans to the National Mall in Washington, DC. Despite the name, women are present in both the crowd and on the podium, including civil rights pioneer Rosa Parks.
I don’t know if ever in my lifetime I will see a world without discrimination. I am a child born in the 50’s. I am a lucky one. My parents detested inequality. Many aren’t so lucky, and unfortunately, some born in my era are even passing this down to their children. It’s incredulous to me people thought what they thought then. Above doesn’t begin to go into detail the atrocities that occurred…
"I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."
Love, Victurd
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Two tits, four tits, six tit’s a dollar…..
Could be the breast blog ever. Well… the results are in… I DID receive one fine pair in the ‘mail’... and one “June Cleavage” one… so thanks… likening my blot to tat, reckon it was tit for tat.
What about boobies? What’s ur take? Reckon we all, men and women, gots what we gots. Nowadays, you women can change that - but us men, well, there ain’t a lot that can be done. Never hearda augmentation or reduction there (in spitea all the GD emails I get regarding same.)
Onea my friends, who has been enhanced, refers everything in dates of “AB”.. After Breasts. If I’m detecting correctly, for her it was a very good thing.. I guess I somehow understand, what with one formally grapefruit sized testicle that was surgically repaired, I could formulate time by “AT”, After Testicle (repaired)… While protrusion mebbe wasn’t a bad thing, at least now I don’t have protrusion way down there…
And about the Huey Lewis lookalike crap, and the Huey Lewis “rumors”, huh uh, it ain’t me, either one!
I, happen to love breasts any old size, no matter the ‘statitstics‘. Yes, there is something very romantic about very small breasts - yes, I’ve now had the pleasure (after hella years of not) of dating “underwire” gal - and that’s special too.. Breasts are a wonderful thing…
Yes, I’d enjoy a topless beach - but somehow the covering up of them only adds to the intrigue - and after so long, ain’t sure topless would be special. Should be reserved, my take, for your special one.
Now, I think I can speak on behalf of 99% of the men in that we enjoy bra-less. Still covered, yet, a “closer” idea. It’s almost like “see these:? Well you ain’t touchin’ ‘em” which too is intriguing…
Perkies. Perkies are thought to be those of young pupettes, and I suppose they are. However, as we age, we old farts appreciate droopies as much, perhaps even moreso. You’ve nursed, you’ve lived, they’re now pointing down to where we’ll eventually end up - and it serves as a reminder “play with these things while you still can!”…
The pencil test. I ain’t sure what purpose it has, but I’ve heard of gals sticking a pencil crossways under their breasts, letting go, and if it stays “you’ve passed the pencil test.” Again, I LOVE smaller breasts to, so don’t really see what purpose this serves - unless’n you’d somehow need assistance in executing this test, because it is kinda technical and all…
Cold. Yes, we men love it when you’re cold. Well, mosta the time. I hear tell of a guy who works with a 70 year old lesbian, a fixture in the company where he works… all she does is walk around all day, and sometimes it’s cold in there. Now that, I hear, ain’t a pretty site.
To me… there ain’t anything naturally attractive about a woman’s “who-hah” or a man’s pee pee and testi’s. I mean, be for real. God is laughing somewhere upstairs over all the commotion/intrigue of same. Breasts, on the other (either) hand, they’re marvelous. They’re sensitive.. They’re beautiful. They’re quite simply, fun!
Man boobs. I understand this is a real turnoff for chicks… and, that same fella that works with the 70 year old lesbian, hear tell he works with a guy that has man boobs, and he’s made fun of behind his bra, er, back.
Beads. We all know about the Mardi Gras.. Flashing for beads. Lemme ask. You ever seen ANYONE wear those god-awful shiny things ANYWHERE after the party is over and the French Quarter is swept clean? Me neither. So me thinks, as much as man wants to see them, women want to show them. Bears repeating, as much as man wants to see them, women want to show them.
Mebbe God did know what He was doing. Long after the nipples have served their nourishment purpose, men still quench for them. Men pay to go into booby bars just to see them, whereas women, all they gotta do is go to the Community Center to see the plain ole flat things we men have.
Cleavage. Red Rover Red Rover bend Sally right over. Me thinks, “Sally’s” (some women), enjoy ‘showin’ their stuff’, and especially enjoy bending over right infronta God and all for a worldly view. I’ve had it happen where I actually kinda turn my head in embarrassment for them. Ok, mebbe that was a stretch, but it’s true, there’s titillation there for some chicky’s in eliciting the “looky but no touchy” “ha ha you want ‘em but you ain’t gettin’ ‘em” atTITude…
Padding. Me no comprende this one. I mean, growing up with the dreaded shortpeckeritis, I’ve NEVER had the urge to tuck a pair of tube socks down there for effect. Padding is generally pretty obvious - and PLEASE KNOW, we loveya no matter how big or how small you are! I understand sometimes it helps in assisting certain tops, but it really really ain’t necessary…
Another perhaps misnomer. Areola size. Like who cares? We’ve all seen ‘em the size of Perkin’s pancakes, and we’ve seen ‘em smaller thana dime. They’re all wonderful! Why, some women’s areolas are stretched after childbirth, and this makes them all the more special - as a mark, a reminder of same. A shrine, so to speak.
The nipple itself. So wonderful. Again, different sizes, lengths, but special no matter which. Life, it be grand. Nipples, they be grand.
Boobs are like people I guess.. All different sizes, colors. Some tiny, some Big’N’s.. Some more agile than others. Some more useful than others. (We’ve all heard the nun saying.) Like people, all boobs are special. Even men’s I guess.
Victor, YOU are a friggin’ pervert. I am NEVER coming back to read this blog again.
Ahm… it took you three years to figure that one out? May your day be fantastitc. As you age, may you fend off mammory loss. Stretch (mark) the hours, minutes of your day with enjoyment. Be nice to everyone (lefty/righty). Treasure twins, even if they ain’t the same size. Remember, some days simply suck. Keep abreast of current events. Nip bad moods, pity parties in the bud. Yes, even be nice to the idiots (boobs) of the world.
Make this the breast week of the New Year. Love, Victurd.
What about boobies? What’s ur take? Reckon we all, men and women, gots what we gots. Nowadays, you women can change that - but us men, well, there ain’t a lot that can be done. Never hearda augmentation or reduction there (in spitea all the GD emails I get regarding same.)
Onea my friends, who has been enhanced, refers everything in dates of “AB”.. After Breasts. If I’m detecting correctly, for her it was a very good thing.. I guess I somehow understand, what with one formally grapefruit sized testicle that was surgically repaired, I could formulate time by “AT”, After Testicle (repaired)… While protrusion mebbe wasn’t a bad thing, at least now I don’t have protrusion way down there…
And about the Huey Lewis lookalike crap, and the Huey Lewis “rumors”, huh uh, it ain’t me, either one!
I, happen to love breasts any old size, no matter the ‘statitstics‘. Yes, there is something very romantic about very small breasts - yes, I’ve now had the pleasure (after hella years of not) of dating “underwire” gal - and that’s special too.. Breasts are a wonderful thing…
Yes, I’d enjoy a topless beach - but somehow the covering up of them only adds to the intrigue - and after so long, ain’t sure topless would be special. Should be reserved, my take, for your special one.
Now, I think I can speak on behalf of 99% of the men in that we enjoy bra-less. Still covered, yet, a “closer” idea. It’s almost like “see these:? Well you ain’t touchin’ ‘em” which too is intriguing…
Perkies. Perkies are thought to be those of young pupettes, and I suppose they are. However, as we age, we old farts appreciate droopies as much, perhaps even moreso. You’ve nursed, you’ve lived, they’re now pointing down to where we’ll eventually end up - and it serves as a reminder “play with these things while you still can!”…
The pencil test. I ain’t sure what purpose it has, but I’ve heard of gals sticking a pencil crossways under their breasts, letting go, and if it stays “you’ve passed the pencil test.” Again, I LOVE smaller breasts to, so don’t really see what purpose this serves - unless’n you’d somehow need assistance in executing this test, because it is kinda technical and all…
Cold. Yes, we men love it when you’re cold. Well, mosta the time. I hear tell of a guy who works with a 70 year old lesbian, a fixture in the company where he works… all she does is walk around all day, and sometimes it’s cold in there. Now that, I hear, ain’t a pretty site.
To me… there ain’t anything naturally attractive about a woman’s “who-hah” or a man’s pee pee and testi’s. I mean, be for real. God is laughing somewhere upstairs over all the commotion/intrigue of same. Breasts, on the other (either) hand, they’re marvelous. They’re sensitive.. They’re beautiful. They’re quite simply, fun!
Man boobs. I understand this is a real turnoff for chicks… and, that same fella that works with the 70 year old lesbian, hear tell he works with a guy that has man boobs, and he’s made fun of behind his bra, er, back.
Beads. We all know about the Mardi Gras.. Flashing for beads. Lemme ask. You ever seen ANYONE wear those god-awful shiny things ANYWHERE after the party is over and the French Quarter is swept clean? Me neither. So me thinks, as much as man wants to see them, women want to show them. Bears repeating, as much as man wants to see them, women want to show them.
Mebbe God did know what He was doing. Long after the nipples have served their nourishment purpose, men still quench for them. Men pay to go into booby bars just to see them, whereas women, all they gotta do is go to the Community Center to see the plain ole flat things we men have.
Cleavage. Red Rover Red Rover bend Sally right over. Me thinks, “Sally’s” (some women), enjoy ‘showin’ their stuff’, and especially enjoy bending over right infronta God and all for a worldly view. I’ve had it happen where I actually kinda turn my head in embarrassment for them. Ok, mebbe that was a stretch, but it’s true, there’s titillation there for some chicky’s in eliciting the “looky but no touchy” “ha ha you want ‘em but you ain’t gettin’ ‘em” atTITude…
Padding. Me no comprende this one. I mean, growing up with the dreaded shortpeckeritis, I’ve NEVER had the urge to tuck a pair of tube socks down there for effect. Padding is generally pretty obvious - and PLEASE KNOW, we loveya no matter how big or how small you are! I understand sometimes it helps in assisting certain tops, but it really really ain’t necessary…
Another perhaps misnomer. Areola size. Like who cares? We’ve all seen ‘em the size of Perkin’s pancakes, and we’ve seen ‘em smaller thana dime. They’re all wonderful! Why, some women’s areolas are stretched after childbirth, and this makes them all the more special - as a mark, a reminder of same. A shrine, so to speak.
The nipple itself. So wonderful. Again, different sizes, lengths, but special no matter which. Life, it be grand. Nipples, they be grand.
Boobs are like people I guess.. All different sizes, colors. Some tiny, some Big’N’s.. Some more agile than others. Some more useful than others. (We’ve all heard the nun saying.) Like people, all boobs are special. Even men’s I guess.
Victor, YOU are a friggin’ pervert. I am NEVER coming back to read this blog again.
Ahm… it took you three years to figure that one out? May your day be fantastitc. As you age, may you fend off mammory loss. Stretch (mark) the hours, minutes of your day with enjoyment. Be nice to everyone (lefty/righty). Treasure twins, even if they ain’t the same size. Remember, some days simply suck. Keep abreast of current events. Nip bad moods, pity parties in the bud. Yes, even be nice to the idiots (boobs) of the world.
Make this the breast week of the New Year. Love, Victurd.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Greetings from the frozen tundra…..
If you’re an idiot like me, tundra is defined as: “A treeless area between the icecap and the tree line of Arctic regions, having a permanently frozen subsoil and supporting low-growing vegetation such as lichens, mosses, and stunted shrubs.”
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr………. Please Mr. Custer…. I don’t wanna go-ooo-ooo.. Ohm-ohhhhhh…
Might I ask… was I the only one that ‘did battle’ yesterday morning with frozen car doors? GD it was cold. Peeking at the backa the Sport’s section today.. The listed low temps for the next four days are: 0, 2, 0, -2. Shit.
I’d piddled here… taken a bath… Yes, showerhead broken - but call my wimpy if you want, I PREFER a bath. Teeth brushed. Deodorant on. Gel put in hair so it will kinda behave. Gently awakened Maynard.. Out to start car. Uh oh. Can’t get in. Shit. Damn it’s cold, think I’ll put ma gloves on.
Now this is my favorite (only) paira gloves.. One, half of a fitty-nine cent pair of those cheapy little brown jersey things… and the other.. Onea them gloves that appear to be for a toddler, but expand to fit largeass hands… this one, green.
I’d broomed the walk, but this only managed to create a hockey rink underneath.. And I “Tim Conway’ed” my way to the car. Looking around.. I turned to see if Gladys Kravats was watching.. Or other neighbor.. Whew… didn’t see ‘em…
Carefully centering my 38” belly insidea 36” pants over my left foot, I propped my right leg up agin’ the back door, put the little green glove on the door handle, prayed like hell I wouldn’t slip, fall, break hip. (Son and I had just had a conversation “dad, at what age are you considered a Senior Citizen”…. “leave me alone son, I’ve emails to send.”
So I pull.. And pull.. My brain wavering between PLEASE OPEN and OH SHIT WHICH WAY WILL I FALL WHEN IT DOES OPEN. It finally does… I don’t fall. I’m cold. By now I have icy gelled, dreadlocks… and I crank ‘er up.
Why I selected the bigass hill route outta the neighborhood is beyond me, but I did. And uh huh, I gets behind this compact car, going 5mph, looking at addresses all the way up the frozen, iced over hill. GD! WILL YOU GIT URASS GOING UP THE HILL? WE AIN’T GONNA MAKE IT! YOU MIGHT BE ABLE TO TURN UR GD LITTLE COMPACT AROUND, BUT HAVE YOU NOTICED MINE IS THE SIZE OF A CABIN CRUISER?
Honest, I truly don’t cuss a lot. Except for here. Believe that shit? It’s true. GD, DO YOU KNOW THAT YOU JUST WAISTED 40 SECONDS OF MY LIFE BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T HAVE THE COURTESY TO SIMPLY ‘CLICK” YOUR TURNSIGNAL ON AND I SAT HERE WAITING ON YOUR ASS?… Uh huh, that’s me. Mr. Wimpy on the outside, Mr. Cantankerous on the inside (of my car.)
To the petrol station for the needed cigs, $12 a day gas to get me there, coffee (a have to) and salted peanuts (a want/have to.)… Then… just to the right of the “Service engine soon” light (have they seen my checking account balance?)… it dings “windshield washer fluid low”… “Check ride control” (I have no idea)… and finally “engine oil low.” Dammit Jim.
So’s, on my way in I graba quart from the display rack outside.. Grab my coffee, peanuts, cigs.. smile at Annette.. Pay.. To car to put oil in. Danger: If you need a quart of oil, don’t never buy one from a rack that’s outside on a “major shrinkage” day. It was like trying to put a quart of Dippity-Do into the oil opening thingy. Sixteen minutes later, and two quarters into the pay telephone “ahm boss... I’m runnin’ a little bit late this morning.. You see I had trouble.. Ah, never mind.. I’m just running a little late.” (Ever tried dialing with a fitty-nine cent brown jersey glove from two feet too far on a sub-zero day?)…
En route. Maynard lights a cig, rolls his window down four inches more than need be. Temp 74 degrees on his halfa the car, 12 on mine. I carry my wonderful $29 Norelco shaver wit’ me, and I shave after I drop Maynard off. By now, the stubble on my face has ice sickles.
So… I close one eye... Dream of robins.. “Play Ball”… North Redington Beach, Florida.. The road to Hana… Hanauma Bay.. Softball/sweat.. Mowing the yard… Helps some..
Maynard dropped, face shaved, into the lot I pull. Door resists some, but I remind it we’ve already gone over that. Brrrrr… GD wind.. I’m so glad I found this wonderful THICK, WARM $6 coat at the Thrift Store. “Victor, don’t tell them that.” Oops, wait. Forgot I ain’t married to her any more, so scratch that one. We’ll just call it a daydream, nota nightMare’
Bubbly co-worker has audacity to declare “HIYA VIC, HOW ARE YOU?”… Resisting the urge to say “I’m FUCKING FROZEN, I DAMN NEAR FELL, I’VE GOT THESE CHEAPASS GLOVES ON.. I RODE PARTWAY IN A WIND TUNNEL.. HOW CAN YOU BE SO POSITIVELY CHEERY ON A DAY LIKE THIS?” Instead, eeking out a smile.. And “Ahm, I’m fine, you?”
So I sits at my desk, a little less than halfheartedly ready to take on the day. Pity party going thru brain “I know she's skinny, but hell she disappeared!”.. then… I see a co-worker who’s boyfriend is just starting chemo… and another who’d just lost a parent… a gal who’s been thru an incredible divorce battle - ne’er a penny to her in years from the sonofabitch…
I see the obits.. Onea the first shipments I opened on my computer screen - was the returning belongings of a military member killed in action in Iraq. BLUEBARK flashes in huge red letters across the screen. I feel mad at myself for inward pity.
Life is blessed, even on days at Zero degrees. Even when driving likens sledding as a kid. Even when pouring Dippity Do into the oil hole thingy. Even when it’s not sunny, when I ain’t in Florida, or Hawaii, or on the field at the City Park.
Life is good all the time. It’s somehow just how we look at it.
So, rearranging thoughts of Tundra.. I find there’s all kinda fun shit right there within the word Tundra… art, ant, aunt, rat, drat, turn, ran, tan, turd, nut, dru.. All kindsa good thoughts.
May your frozen doors always open, and thanks for being here to help in reminding me, life, when outlook rearranged, ain’t so damn bad. Boogie til you die, but please don’t break a hip in doing so… Love, Victurd.
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr………. Please Mr. Custer…. I don’t wanna go-ooo-ooo.. Ohm-ohhhhhh…
Might I ask… was I the only one that ‘did battle’ yesterday morning with frozen car doors? GD it was cold. Peeking at the backa the Sport’s section today.. The listed low temps for the next four days are: 0, 2, 0, -2. Shit.
I’d piddled here… taken a bath… Yes, showerhead broken - but call my wimpy if you want, I PREFER a bath. Teeth brushed. Deodorant on. Gel put in hair so it will kinda behave. Gently awakened Maynard.. Out to start car. Uh oh. Can’t get in. Shit. Damn it’s cold, think I’ll put ma gloves on.
Now this is my favorite (only) paira gloves.. One, half of a fitty-nine cent pair of those cheapy little brown jersey things… and the other.. Onea them gloves that appear to be for a toddler, but expand to fit largeass hands… this one, green.
I’d broomed the walk, but this only managed to create a hockey rink underneath.. And I “Tim Conway’ed” my way to the car. Looking around.. I turned to see if Gladys Kravats was watching.. Or other neighbor.. Whew… didn’t see ‘em…
Carefully centering my 38” belly insidea 36” pants over my left foot, I propped my right leg up agin’ the back door, put the little green glove on the door handle, prayed like hell I wouldn’t slip, fall, break hip. (Son and I had just had a conversation “dad, at what age are you considered a Senior Citizen”…. “leave me alone son, I’ve emails to send.”
So I pull.. And pull.. My brain wavering between PLEASE OPEN and OH SHIT WHICH WAY WILL I FALL WHEN IT DOES OPEN. It finally does… I don’t fall. I’m cold. By now I have icy gelled, dreadlocks… and I crank ‘er up.
Why I selected the bigass hill route outta the neighborhood is beyond me, but I did. And uh huh, I gets behind this compact car, going 5mph, looking at addresses all the way up the frozen, iced over hill. GD! WILL YOU GIT URASS GOING UP THE HILL? WE AIN’T GONNA MAKE IT! YOU MIGHT BE ABLE TO TURN UR GD LITTLE COMPACT AROUND, BUT HAVE YOU NOTICED MINE IS THE SIZE OF A CABIN CRUISER?
Honest, I truly don’t cuss a lot. Except for here. Believe that shit? It’s true. GD, DO YOU KNOW THAT YOU JUST WAISTED 40 SECONDS OF MY LIFE BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T HAVE THE COURTESY TO SIMPLY ‘CLICK” YOUR TURNSIGNAL ON AND I SAT HERE WAITING ON YOUR ASS?… Uh huh, that’s me. Mr. Wimpy on the outside, Mr. Cantankerous on the inside (of my car.)
To the petrol station for the needed cigs, $12 a day gas to get me there, coffee (a have to) and salted peanuts (a want/have to.)… Then… just to the right of the “Service engine soon” light (have they seen my checking account balance?)… it dings “windshield washer fluid low”… “Check ride control” (I have no idea)… and finally “engine oil low.” Dammit Jim.
So’s, on my way in I graba quart from the display rack outside.. Grab my coffee, peanuts, cigs.. smile at Annette.. Pay.. To car to put oil in. Danger: If you need a quart of oil, don’t never buy one from a rack that’s outside on a “major shrinkage” day. It was like trying to put a quart of Dippity-Do into the oil opening thingy. Sixteen minutes later, and two quarters into the pay telephone “ahm boss... I’m runnin’ a little bit late this morning.. You see I had trouble.. Ah, never mind.. I’m just running a little late.” (Ever tried dialing with a fitty-nine cent brown jersey glove from two feet too far on a sub-zero day?)…
En route. Maynard lights a cig, rolls his window down four inches more than need be. Temp 74 degrees on his halfa the car, 12 on mine. I carry my wonderful $29 Norelco shaver wit’ me, and I shave after I drop Maynard off. By now, the stubble on my face has ice sickles.
So… I close one eye... Dream of robins.. “Play Ball”… North Redington Beach, Florida.. The road to Hana… Hanauma Bay.. Softball/sweat.. Mowing the yard… Helps some..
Maynard dropped, face shaved, into the lot I pull. Door resists some, but I remind it we’ve already gone over that. Brrrrr… GD wind.. I’m so glad I found this wonderful THICK, WARM $6 coat at the Thrift Store. “Victor, don’t tell them that.” Oops, wait. Forgot I ain’t married to her any more, so scratch that one. We’ll just call it a daydream, nota nightMare’
Bubbly co-worker has audacity to declare “HIYA VIC, HOW ARE YOU?”… Resisting the urge to say “I’m FUCKING FROZEN, I DAMN NEAR FELL, I’VE GOT THESE CHEAPASS GLOVES ON.. I RODE PARTWAY IN A WIND TUNNEL.. HOW CAN YOU BE SO POSITIVELY CHEERY ON A DAY LIKE THIS?” Instead, eeking out a smile.. And “Ahm, I’m fine, you?”
So I sits at my desk, a little less than halfheartedly ready to take on the day. Pity party going thru brain “I know she's skinny, but hell she disappeared!”.. then… I see a co-worker who’s boyfriend is just starting chemo… and another who’d just lost a parent… a gal who’s been thru an incredible divorce battle - ne’er a penny to her in years from the sonofabitch…
I see the obits.. Onea the first shipments I opened on my computer screen - was the returning belongings of a military member killed in action in Iraq. BLUEBARK flashes in huge red letters across the screen. I feel mad at myself for inward pity.
Life is blessed, even on days at Zero degrees. Even when driving likens sledding as a kid. Even when pouring Dippity Do into the oil hole thingy. Even when it’s not sunny, when I ain’t in Florida, or Hawaii, or on the field at the City Park.
Life is good all the time. It’s somehow just how we look at it.
So, rearranging thoughts of Tundra.. I find there’s all kinda fun shit right there within the word Tundra… art, ant, aunt, rat, drat, turn, ran, tan, turd, nut, dru.. All kindsa good thoughts.
May your frozen doors always open, and thanks for being here to help in reminding me, life, when outlook rearranged, ain’t so damn bad. Boogie til you die, but please don’t break a hip in doing so… Love, Victurd.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
What would you do?
As I drove home tonight…. I wondered to myself what I’d do if I’d gone to the doctor and he’d announced “it’s terminal… you have six months to live.” Of course that ain’t true, at least I don’t think! But it did have me wondering what I’d do for those six months….
You?
Don’t laugh. Ok laugh if you wanna.. Selfish was onea the first that popped into my mind. I pictured myself in the final days, laying in some hospital… (hopefully) having friends and loved ones stop by... And I thought “there’s five or six, or forty that I can think of where I’d simply like to say ‘can I see your boobs?” hehe.. True. We walk thru life having these evil (wonderful) thoughts, but we can never dare living them. “Hi ______, I’m dying - would you mind flashing me??
On (another) serious note, I think I’d revisit all the places where I’d had happy times. You know yours. Mighta been a certain school… The main house you grew up in… Perhaps the college you went to… the hospital where your kid was born… a drive down a favorite road of day’s past…
Sports have been a huge parta my past… I’d go sit on the pitching mound of our local city park and try to recall all the games at the various ages… what my friends looked like.. Special moments…
I think I’d contact everyone I ever really had a good time with - and make sure they knew I thought that..
I’d spend a lot of time with my eyeballs… upon my son... Upon my extended family.. Upon friends… simply absorbing, remembering.. Smiling…
I’d get on the phone and dial those I ain’t seen in awhile, that I’d love to talk to.. Not to tell them about terminal - but just to hear their voice - reflect upon those days with them…
I’d eat Barbeque ribs every night for six months. I’d have Fritos and a peanut butter cookie every day for lunch. I’d splurge and probably buy some kinda quality beer that you actually heard of.
I’d contact the old shrively people at the funeral home and pre-plan/pay for everything, so no one else would haveta…
I’d spend 24 hours straight playing blackjack - a certain little rush thing for me.…
I’d finally buy a CD burner and find every song I’ve ever loved to replay…
I’d email virtually everyone in my stored email addy list daily, simply to say “hey”…
I’d go to the beach for a short... But this time there’d be no DisneyWorld, Sea World, shopping at outlet malls, fast-paced stuff... I’d sit on the beach from sun up to sun down and suckup the ocean’s wonder…
I’d love another float trip… I’d take in a Royal’s game in the bleachers on a hot sunny day…
I’d use the word love a lot…
I’m sure there’s more I could think of… but you’re probably already nodding off.. So lemme just say:
All of the above… yes even pre-paying /arranging a funeral.. Could be… should be done today... Regardless of our health condition..
Do we do the things we really want to do? Or, do we aimlessly go thru life with only hope. I vote… do it. Do ‘em. Think of what you’d do if given a six-month sentence. I’ve listed all the things I’d do. I bet ur list would be special to you as well…
So I’ll start tomorrow. NO. WAIT. I’ll start today. Females, please, send me pics of your boobies to vicschultze@hotmail.com. Hehe.
Life is short, play hard. Love, Victurd.
You?
Don’t laugh. Ok laugh if you wanna.. Selfish was onea the first that popped into my mind. I pictured myself in the final days, laying in some hospital… (hopefully) having friends and loved ones stop by... And I thought “there’s five or six, or forty that I can think of where I’d simply like to say ‘can I see your boobs?” hehe.. True. We walk thru life having these evil (wonderful) thoughts, but we can never dare living them. “Hi ______, I’m dying - would you mind flashing me??
On (another) serious note, I think I’d revisit all the places where I’d had happy times. You know yours. Mighta been a certain school… The main house you grew up in… Perhaps the college you went to… the hospital where your kid was born… a drive down a favorite road of day’s past…
Sports have been a huge parta my past… I’d go sit on the pitching mound of our local city park and try to recall all the games at the various ages… what my friends looked like.. Special moments…
I think I’d contact everyone I ever really had a good time with - and make sure they knew I thought that..
I’d spend a lot of time with my eyeballs… upon my son... Upon my extended family.. Upon friends… simply absorbing, remembering.. Smiling…
I’d get on the phone and dial those I ain’t seen in awhile, that I’d love to talk to.. Not to tell them about terminal - but just to hear their voice - reflect upon those days with them…
I’d eat Barbeque ribs every night for six months. I’d have Fritos and a peanut butter cookie every day for lunch. I’d splurge and probably buy some kinda quality beer that you actually heard of.
I’d contact the old shrively people at the funeral home and pre-plan/pay for everything, so no one else would haveta…
I’d spend 24 hours straight playing blackjack - a certain little rush thing for me.…
I’d finally buy a CD burner and find every song I’ve ever loved to replay…
I’d email virtually everyone in my stored email addy list daily, simply to say “hey”…
I’d go to the beach for a short... But this time there’d be no DisneyWorld, Sea World, shopping at outlet malls, fast-paced stuff... I’d sit on the beach from sun up to sun down and suckup the ocean’s wonder…
I’d love another float trip… I’d take in a Royal’s game in the bleachers on a hot sunny day…
I’d use the word love a lot…
I’m sure there’s more I could think of… but you’re probably already nodding off.. So lemme just say:
All of the above… yes even pre-paying /arranging a funeral.. Could be… should be done today... Regardless of our health condition..
Do we do the things we really want to do? Or, do we aimlessly go thru life with only hope. I vote… do it. Do ‘em. Think of what you’d do if given a six-month sentence. I’ve listed all the things I’d do. I bet ur list would be special to you as well…
So I’ll start tomorrow. NO. WAIT. I’ll start today. Females, please, send me pics of your boobies to vicschultze@hotmail.com. Hehe.
Life is short, play hard. Love, Victurd.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Happy Leapa Year….
I recently got an email (certain you probably did too… seems, like some people, they get around) where it’s all about life being backwards… you would begin life in the coffin, jumping out... A little weak… get stronger… younger… eventually become a kid… hop back in the belly, and then end life as an orgasm… Sounds decent to me!
For whatever reason, I searched for the lyrics of Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light.. And read.. And enjoyed.. And it reminded me of a great day, age and time.
I missed the GD Iowa Caucus.. And also… where’d they go next? NH? NC? Crap I can’t remember..
I would run on the proposal of mandatory Leapa Year for all…
This is where, starting at the end of your twenties, you get to take off one full year (paid for by slightly higher Social Security taxes) and be a High School kid again. If you have children, we’d boot them out to a camp… and have it be run and monitored by illegal aliens - in return for their one day gaining a Social Security Number.
We’d have the High School cleared out.. And you could go.. Do the things you usedta do.. Which I know could include not going… or if you were one where High School was very painful - then you could take this year to do anything in the hell you wanted. Everyone would receive a measly little monthly stipend, similar to Social Security, but who lived on big bucks back in the day anyways?
I ain’t figured out what to do with mates, if you got one.. I guess you could have a one year “time out” - and return to wedded bliss upon the completion of the year… The Government would mandate your company hold your job for you.
This once a decade thing would be repeated in the last year of your 30’s, 40’s, 50’s and 60’s.. (If you’re still working at age 70, don’t)..
We could invade the Koo-Koo Drive Inn. We could caravan to the real Drive Inn. We could go to the river and get wasted. We could havea sock hop… tear off fruit loops.. Tee pee houses… we could take Bic lighters to concerts… We could drive across the Mo-Kan border to frequent old joints we usedta frequent when the drinking age was 18, just for old timesake.
We could pass notes… swap spit… make out in the backseat, if we still both fit... We could steam up the windows like they ain’t been steamed up in years… we could put cigarette fuses into cherry bombs and place ‘em on the windowsill of those we’re currently pissed at, or, just for fun/good measure.
We could make GIGANTIC shadows with our bodies on the Methodist Church wall upon the hill. We could get a Mugs Up root beer.. Cruise the square.. Throw our cell phones away… Victor you don’t have a cell phone.. You could throw your cell phones away.. We could go as a group and sit and visit with “the cool parents.” BBQ’s.. Float trips.. Mud volleyball… Karaoke like we did before karaoke was cool.. Bonfires.. Campouts.. A weekend Young Life outing.. Gas would be $.30 a gallon, just for us, just for that year.. Cars would be “from your day”…
At the end of the year, you go back to where you were... Live… rest… and act your age for nine more years… then u getta do it again..
I bet we’d live longer. Hate less. Hurry not so much. Appreciate stuff more. Leapa Year.
What happens in Leapa Year, stays in Leapa Year. When your awakened for the 47th night in a row by Hershel’s snoring, remember :Leapa Year ain’t that far away!.. When you boss chastises you over something you knew he probably would - think Leapa Year.
When you kid has left four days worth of dirty dishes, and six pair of dirty clothes in one nights time - remember Leapa Year is just around the corner..
Please change Georges in the middle of a screw,
Vote for Victor, and Leapa Year too.
Call me…. We’ll begin the campaign.. STerling 1-0637 Love, Victurd.
For whatever reason, I searched for the lyrics of Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light.. And read.. And enjoyed.. And it reminded me of a great day, age and time.
I missed the GD Iowa Caucus.. And also… where’d they go next? NH? NC? Crap I can’t remember..
I would run on the proposal of mandatory Leapa Year for all…
This is where, starting at the end of your twenties, you get to take off one full year (paid for by slightly higher Social Security taxes) and be a High School kid again. If you have children, we’d boot them out to a camp… and have it be run and monitored by illegal aliens - in return for their one day gaining a Social Security Number.
We’d have the High School cleared out.. And you could go.. Do the things you usedta do.. Which I know could include not going… or if you were one where High School was very painful - then you could take this year to do anything in the hell you wanted. Everyone would receive a measly little monthly stipend, similar to Social Security, but who lived on big bucks back in the day anyways?
I ain’t figured out what to do with mates, if you got one.. I guess you could have a one year “time out” - and return to wedded bliss upon the completion of the year… The Government would mandate your company hold your job for you.
This once a decade thing would be repeated in the last year of your 30’s, 40’s, 50’s and 60’s.. (If you’re still working at age 70, don’t)..
We could invade the Koo-Koo Drive Inn. We could caravan to the real Drive Inn. We could go to the river and get wasted. We could havea sock hop… tear off fruit loops.. Tee pee houses… we could take Bic lighters to concerts… We could drive across the Mo-Kan border to frequent old joints we usedta frequent when the drinking age was 18, just for old timesake.
We could pass notes… swap spit… make out in the backseat, if we still both fit... We could steam up the windows like they ain’t been steamed up in years… we could put cigarette fuses into cherry bombs and place ‘em on the windowsill of those we’re currently pissed at, or, just for fun/good measure.
We could make GIGANTIC shadows with our bodies on the Methodist Church wall upon the hill. We could get a Mugs Up root beer.. Cruise the square.. Throw our cell phones away… Victor you don’t have a cell phone.. You could throw your cell phones away.. We could go as a group and sit and visit with “the cool parents.” BBQ’s.. Float trips.. Mud volleyball… Karaoke like we did before karaoke was cool.. Bonfires.. Campouts.. A weekend Young Life outing.. Gas would be $.30 a gallon, just for us, just for that year.. Cars would be “from your day”…
At the end of the year, you go back to where you were... Live… rest… and act your age for nine more years… then u getta do it again..
I bet we’d live longer. Hate less. Hurry not so much. Appreciate stuff more. Leapa Year.
What happens in Leapa Year, stays in Leapa Year. When your awakened for the 47th night in a row by Hershel’s snoring, remember :Leapa Year ain’t that far away!.. When you boss chastises you over something you knew he probably would - think Leapa Year.
When you kid has left four days worth of dirty dishes, and six pair of dirty clothes in one nights time - remember Leapa Year is just around the corner..
Please change Georges in the middle of a screw,
Vote for Victor, and Leapa Year too.
Call me…. We’ll begin the campaign.. STerling 1-0637 Love, Victurd.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
The little kid dribbled right up to the half court line… and stopped….
Yes, I’m back to refereeing little first and second grade shits… Last year was interesting because at the first of the season I was literally “blind as a bat”… then, I had my (“Now exactly how old are you?” the eye doc said in amazement during my first trip ever at age 54 to the the eye doc) cataracts corrected, and I then could see bright, vivid colors, fine print be it newspaper or computer, close calls on the court, and a fine, fine derriere from 50 yards away. Victor, that was a long sentence. Yes. Yes, it was.
So this little shit dribbles up to half court... The defense, by the rule of this age group, can’t cross the line.. They must wait on him to dribble across, then it’s free game…
He’s stopped in place… but continues dribbling… his coach has given him 5 options of plays to call, signified by the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5... And he thinks… and thinks… and thinks… and continues dribbling without moving forward.. . “CALL THE PLAY JIMMY!”… “HURRY!”.. (You got ten seconds, in a 'real' game, to cross the line, but we don’t get to calling that one until mebbe 5th, 6th grade.)… It’s getting a bit uncomfy for us, the refs... It’s kinda tyring on the audience, a mixture of parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and friends…
I tried placing myself in his shoes… was he worrying he might make the wrong call? I mean hell, he didn’t design the plays, his coach did… Did he forget that all he had to do was yell a number between one and five? Was it just a brief test of intestinal fortitude?
Then, I related. I’ve dribbled right up to this house in so much need of repair.. . Stopped and continued dribbling… afraid to cross the line..
I’ve dribbled right up to the want ads, to the tele… to make that call about a second job I find myself fairly strongly needed.. And I just stop and continue dribbling…
I’ve dribbled right up to a “potential”.. and I stop and just continue dribbling.. CALL THE PLAY! CALL HER! ASK HER OUT FOR CRIMINY SAKES!.. HURRY!
I’ve dribbled right up to “Resume‘-Master”… ah hell, who knows one’s worth on the market - could be they’d scoff at some old fitty-five year old… giggle whilst they read the resume.. Make fun'a me in their best Walter Brennen impression..… then again, ya never know… Just by virtue of age and working in this arena for awhile - mebbe I could attain more.. Then I just stop and continue dribbling..
Hey hey hey… “yes ma’am… here’s a check that has my routing number on it… now, if I understand right.. You’ll take out $23 a month.. And I can come ANYTIME/ANY DAY you’re open and workout, swim, bask in the sauna, relax in the Jacuzzi, lift some weights, light up the elliptical?”… and then I stop at the half court line.. And continue dribbling… Not crossing…
There are some things, I simply have a hitch in the get along.. I mebbe am intestinally fortitude challenged.. I am reasonably creative at work finding the least damn expensive way to move a Household Goods shipment from Miami, FL to Tacoma, WA.. Or from Searcy, AR to Rancho Dominguez, CA.. I can tease, joke with the Port Agents I work with - treat them decently, and man when I need a favor it’s “Vic, you got it!”…
I can be a pretty damn good chauffuer, cook, counselor, pal, father to Maynard…
There are just, at present, certain areas in my life where I dribble up to the line... And I have the hardest time yelling 1, 2, 3, 4, or 5 to start “the play.”
Hell, tonight I even started this sumbitch four times on subjects other than this. (Victor I’ma think one or tanother of them other ones mighta been better!)… Am-scray…
I love basketball. I love doing remodeling crap. I love women. I actually even love the challenge of job hunting… I love that feel of sitting in the sauna as reward after a one-hour combined aerobic/weight lifting workout.
I’m just having baby problems crossing the half court line…
The kid ultimately (way past ten seconds) hollered out “ONE!”… which sent four other first graders scurrying, three of them for sure not knowing whatinthehell they’re supposed to do when “ONE” is hollered out… but they sprinted so they wouldn't be "thought" stupid.
Seems “ONE” was a “Pick” designed to free up the dribbler... One of his teammates comes up, sets the pick on the lil feller guarding him... And lo and behold.. A straight path to the basket… an easy layup… jubilation… no one is upset or frustrated with Jimmy any longer…
Call the play Victor. Hurry! it’s a bit uncomfy… kinda trying…
I hope me and that little shit are the only ones having trouble crossing half court… May everything u desire in life… may all ur dreams… may all your chores… your hopes… be reached…
ONE worked for this lil tugger… One is the loneliest number is a pity party that made Three Dog Night rich… The weirdest shit one remembers… It was Three Dog Nights “Easy to be hard” that played, hell, hella years ago at the Courtwarming Dance where I had the honor of dancing with the Courtwarming Queen. I wonder if I dribbled across the line that night?
You perverts. The Courtwarming Dance is after the basketball game I'd played in. You need to git ur minds outta the gutters… and whilst u do... I promise to work on crossing that line.. feel free to set a pick eh? I'm due for a lay... up.
Dribbling love to you, Victurd.
So this little shit dribbles up to half court... The defense, by the rule of this age group, can’t cross the line.. They must wait on him to dribble across, then it’s free game…
He’s stopped in place… but continues dribbling… his coach has given him 5 options of plays to call, signified by the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5... And he thinks… and thinks… and thinks… and continues dribbling without moving forward.. . “CALL THE PLAY JIMMY!”… “HURRY!”.. (You got ten seconds, in a 'real' game, to cross the line, but we don’t get to calling that one until mebbe 5th, 6th grade.)… It’s getting a bit uncomfy for us, the refs... It’s kinda tyring on the audience, a mixture of parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and friends…
I tried placing myself in his shoes… was he worrying he might make the wrong call? I mean hell, he didn’t design the plays, his coach did… Did he forget that all he had to do was yell a number between one and five? Was it just a brief test of intestinal fortitude?
Then, I related. I’ve dribbled right up to this house in so much need of repair.. . Stopped and continued dribbling… afraid to cross the line..
I’ve dribbled right up to the want ads, to the tele… to make that call about a second job I find myself fairly strongly needed.. And I just stop and continue dribbling…
I’ve dribbled right up to a “potential”.. and I stop and just continue dribbling.. CALL THE PLAY! CALL HER! ASK HER OUT FOR CRIMINY SAKES!.. HURRY!
I’ve dribbled right up to “Resume‘-Master”… ah hell, who knows one’s worth on the market - could be they’d scoff at some old fitty-five year old… giggle whilst they read the resume.. Make fun'a me in their best Walter Brennen impression..… then again, ya never know… Just by virtue of age and working in this arena for awhile - mebbe I could attain more.. Then I just stop and continue dribbling..
Hey hey hey… “yes ma’am… here’s a check that has my routing number on it… now, if I understand right.. You’ll take out $23 a month.. And I can come ANYTIME/ANY DAY you’re open and workout, swim, bask in the sauna, relax in the Jacuzzi, lift some weights, light up the elliptical?”… and then I stop at the half court line.. And continue dribbling… Not crossing…
There are some things, I simply have a hitch in the get along.. I mebbe am intestinally fortitude challenged.. I am reasonably creative at work finding the least damn expensive way to move a Household Goods shipment from Miami, FL to Tacoma, WA.. Or from Searcy, AR to Rancho Dominguez, CA.. I can tease, joke with the Port Agents I work with - treat them decently, and man when I need a favor it’s “Vic, you got it!”…
I can be a pretty damn good chauffuer, cook, counselor, pal, father to Maynard…
There are just, at present, certain areas in my life where I dribble up to the line... And I have the hardest time yelling 1, 2, 3, 4, or 5 to start “the play.”
Hell, tonight I even started this sumbitch four times on subjects other than this. (Victor I’ma think one or tanother of them other ones mighta been better!)… Am-scray…
I love basketball. I love doing remodeling crap. I love women. I actually even love the challenge of job hunting… I love that feel of sitting in the sauna as reward after a one-hour combined aerobic/weight lifting workout.
I’m just having baby problems crossing the half court line…
The kid ultimately (way past ten seconds) hollered out “ONE!”… which sent four other first graders scurrying, three of them for sure not knowing whatinthehell they’re supposed to do when “ONE” is hollered out… but they sprinted so they wouldn't be "thought" stupid.
Seems “ONE” was a “Pick” designed to free up the dribbler... One of his teammates comes up, sets the pick on the lil feller guarding him... And lo and behold.. A straight path to the basket… an easy layup… jubilation… no one is upset or frustrated with Jimmy any longer…
Call the play Victor. Hurry! it’s a bit uncomfy… kinda trying…
I hope me and that little shit are the only ones having trouble crossing half court… May everything u desire in life… may all ur dreams… may all your chores… your hopes… be reached…
ONE worked for this lil tugger… One is the loneliest number is a pity party that made Three Dog Night rich… The weirdest shit one remembers… It was Three Dog Nights “Easy to be hard” that played, hell, hella years ago at the Courtwarming Dance where I had the honor of dancing with the Courtwarming Queen. I wonder if I dribbled across the line that night?
You perverts. The Courtwarming Dance is after the basketball game I'd played in. You need to git ur minds outta the gutters… and whilst u do... I promise to work on crossing that line.. feel free to set a pick eh? I'm due for a lay... up.
Dribbling love to you, Victurd.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
I resolve to….
Sleep outside…
Continue to blog, good Lord willing….
Boogie til 2009...
New Address…
Hotel/motel - 3 nights…
Cruise…
Cigs - yuck - I have GOT to get ridda the grip they have on me... Four times in the past three years - when combined with a cold, sinus infection - I've coughed until I momentarily passed out. I have got to quit, I know it and I don't have to hear a doctor say it - I know he thinks it.
Tell impactive ones they were just that….
Find the one to love… and glee in watching her get out of bed to walk to the restroom…
Hold the hand of one I want to hold, and in return, them want to have it held..
Share a movie, rub a leg…
A weekend away for two…
Choose happy over sad…
Pray for verbal hesitation when someone’s done something or said something that hit’s the belly/brain the wrong way…
Do something good for the world, with no remuneration to me…
Say “hello” to people I don’t know more often…
Continue to occasionally play pool with my younger friends who treat an old guy like one of the gang..
Befriend every hound I come in contact with…
Have another year of patience with my son.…
In every meeting I can with a friend, either say something to make them feel good about themselves, or to inquire of a part of their life dear to them - hopefully, in effect saying “I like you, I value your friendship..”
Throw on those size 36 jeans, and have there be a little air there between the belly/butt/hips and the denim…
Continue to email the daily “You might be a Redneck if” joke to my buds..
Continue to “have one”, play pool, Golden Tee bowling, shuffleboard, visit with friends regularly - BUT - to utilize the days/nights I ain’t doing that more constructively, educationally, in OTHER ways…
Get a CD/DVD burner…
Enjoy, frequent, behold the great outdoors as much as I did in my twenties. It’s taken for granted (the time left) - use it Victor.
To reread this on 12/31/2008 and to simply like me and the year I’ve led..
I resolve that the term “New Year” includes ALL of 2008, and if I thinka shit I ain’t thought of today - the want and ability to add it to this list.
I resolve to review this list quarterly with my eyes, but even way more frequently with my brain as I live 2008.
I resolve to hope my friends, loved ones know I hope 2008 is one of the best years of their life..
Love, Victurd
Continue to blog, good Lord willing….
Boogie til 2009...
New Address…
Hotel/motel - 3 nights…
Cruise…
Cigs - yuck - I have GOT to get ridda the grip they have on me... Four times in the past three years - when combined with a cold, sinus infection - I've coughed until I momentarily passed out. I have got to quit, I know it and I don't have to hear a doctor say it - I know he thinks it.
Tell impactive ones they were just that….
Find the one to love… and glee in watching her get out of bed to walk to the restroom…
Hold the hand of one I want to hold, and in return, them want to have it held..
Share a movie, rub a leg…
A weekend away for two…
Choose happy over sad…
Pray for verbal hesitation when someone’s done something or said something that hit’s the belly/brain the wrong way…
Do something good for the world, with no remuneration to me…
Say “hello” to people I don’t know more often…
Continue to occasionally play pool with my younger friends who treat an old guy like one of the gang..
Befriend every hound I come in contact with…
Have another year of patience with my son.…
In every meeting I can with a friend, either say something to make them feel good about themselves, or to inquire of a part of their life dear to them - hopefully, in effect saying “I like you, I value your friendship..”
Throw on those size 36 jeans, and have there be a little air there between the belly/butt/hips and the denim…
Continue to email the daily “You might be a Redneck if” joke to my buds..
Continue to “have one”, play pool, Golden Tee bowling, shuffleboard, visit with friends regularly - BUT - to utilize the days/nights I ain’t doing that more constructively, educationally, in OTHER ways…
Get a CD/DVD burner…
Enjoy, frequent, behold the great outdoors as much as I did in my twenties. It’s taken for granted (the time left) - use it Victor.
To reread this on 12/31/2008 and to simply like me and the year I’ve led..
I resolve that the term “New Year” includes ALL of 2008, and if I thinka shit I ain’t thought of today - the want and ability to add it to this list.
I resolve to review this list quarterly with my eyes, but even way more frequently with my brain as I live 2008.
I resolve to hope my friends, loved ones know I hope 2008 is one of the best years of their life..
Love, Victurd
Friday, January 11, 2008
Blood, Sweat and Tears….
Victor, are you gonna talk 40 years ago again? Mebbe.
I never knew the names of the original dudes…. Al Kooper, Jim Fielder, Fred Lipsius, Randy Brecker, Jerry Weiss, Dick Halligan, Steve Katz, and Bobby Colomby - and later, David Clayton-Thomas… …. They started in 1967... Which… yep… is exactly (actually) 41 years ago…
The hell’s all this got to do with a blog in January of 2008? Lots.
Look at the name. It’s life.
We start - blood. There’s a bond formed before we even jump outta the womb... We gestate for nine months or so, and then jualah… there’s blood all around… Of course mom and dad… but too aunts, uncles, grannies, g-pa’s, cousins, brothers, sisters, et al. The first portion of our life is VERY blood.
God bless the child.…
Babies whine, cry, poop, pee, need fed, give little (initially) in return for care - and if it weren’t for blood, we’d never make it as infants.
In fact, blood is our guiding light for many, many years.. We are nurtured, educated, trained and loved by blood. Nature does have it’s way.
Sweat. We fly the coop. Oh shit, here I go… “where’s blood?”… “We’re here, but you’ll be ok, it’s time to venture on… you’ve learned well… we’re always here for you, but you’ll be just fine.”
Hi De Ho
So we sweat. About that. About making it. About the realization “oh shit, I’m really out here… for eons I’ve bitched and moaned about wanting freedom, well smack me in the ass, I’ve now got it.”
We sweat thru dating, occupation, independence... Finding another... We sweat “right one?”… “right career?”… “Money? Oh shit? - HOW”… “KIDS? ALREADY? I just got here!”… We sweat to juggle band concerts, basketball practice, confirmation, Chucky Cheese, slumber parties, back to school nights, PTA, swimming, anything our kids want to do - we sweat our way through it….
You've Made Me So Very Happy
We sweat thru the idea “GD, I gotta sleep next to you FOREVER?”.. “I wonder, the way she looked at ______, if she has ideas/wants/thoughts, about doinking him?””… We sweat thru “howinthehell are we gonna make it thru Christmas when we can’t pay our friggin’ gas bill as it is?”…
We sweat through… “mom’s sick…. Now I’ve seen her sick.. But I mean this time, SHE’S REALLY SICK.”… Dad is having trouble making it alone… This is tough.. I’ve got my own family, my own sweat - but I’ve got to make sure my dad rides it out in comfort…
And when I die…
So, after we’ve sweated, comes tears - eventually. Sure, there are good tears along the way - but moreso tears of the evolutionary process. Blood is now gone - thus, tears, and rightfully so. The sweat - did it end ok? Was it worth it? Do you feel cheated? Enthralled? As if you achieved?
What goes up must come down, spinning wheel got to go around…
talkin' 'bout your troubles it's a cryin' sin - ride a painted pony
let the spinning wheel spin
Victor, exactly whatinthehell are you trying to say here. I ain’t real sure. To me, it’s just perfect - blood, sweat, tears. Natural. It’s the path. All three are good really. I mean, how good is blood? Blood is the ultimate. We’re forever entrenched - even when some are gone.
Sweat? What good is life without sweat? All things don’t come easy, I don’t give a rats if you’re Mark Cuban, Allen Greenspan or Bill Gates… they don’t come easy. We all sweat. Not only occupationally - with ALL the ins and outs of relationships, work, parenting, older parents - it’s just damned hard - but if it wasn’t… then it wouldn’t be worth it.
The tears Victor, the tears… Ahhhh, perfect… Tears are God’s gift... God’s gift in loss… God’s gift in happiness… God’s gift as a gentle reminder “let it flow, but I am here for you..”
Don't wanna go by the devil
don't wanna go by the demon
don't wanna go by satan
don't wanna die uneasy
just let me go
naturally
And when I die, and when I'm dead
dead and gone
there'll be
one child born, in our world
to carry on, to carry on… Love, Victurd
I never knew the names of the original dudes…. Al Kooper, Jim Fielder, Fred Lipsius, Randy Brecker, Jerry Weiss, Dick Halligan, Steve Katz, and Bobby Colomby - and later, David Clayton-Thomas… …. They started in 1967... Which… yep… is exactly (actually) 41 years ago…
The hell’s all this got to do with a blog in January of 2008? Lots.
Look at the name. It’s life.
We start - blood. There’s a bond formed before we even jump outta the womb... We gestate for nine months or so, and then jualah… there’s blood all around… Of course mom and dad… but too aunts, uncles, grannies, g-pa’s, cousins, brothers, sisters, et al. The first portion of our life is VERY blood.
God bless the child.…
Babies whine, cry, poop, pee, need fed, give little (initially) in return for care - and if it weren’t for blood, we’d never make it as infants.
In fact, blood is our guiding light for many, many years.. We are nurtured, educated, trained and loved by blood. Nature does have it’s way.
Sweat. We fly the coop. Oh shit, here I go… “where’s blood?”… “We’re here, but you’ll be ok, it’s time to venture on… you’ve learned well… we’re always here for you, but you’ll be just fine.”
Hi De Ho
So we sweat. About that. About making it. About the realization “oh shit, I’m really out here… for eons I’ve bitched and moaned about wanting freedom, well smack me in the ass, I’ve now got it.”
We sweat thru dating, occupation, independence... Finding another... We sweat “right one?”… “right career?”… “Money? Oh shit? - HOW”… “KIDS? ALREADY? I just got here!”… We sweat to juggle band concerts, basketball practice, confirmation, Chucky Cheese, slumber parties, back to school nights, PTA, swimming, anything our kids want to do - we sweat our way through it….
You've Made Me So Very Happy
We sweat thru the idea “GD, I gotta sleep next to you FOREVER?”.. “I wonder, the way she looked at ______, if she has ideas/wants/thoughts, about doinking him?””… We sweat thru “howinthehell are we gonna make it thru Christmas when we can’t pay our friggin’ gas bill as it is?”…
We sweat through… “mom’s sick…. Now I’ve seen her sick.. But I mean this time, SHE’S REALLY SICK.”… Dad is having trouble making it alone… This is tough.. I’ve got my own family, my own sweat - but I’ve got to make sure my dad rides it out in comfort…
And when I die…
So, after we’ve sweated, comes tears - eventually. Sure, there are good tears along the way - but moreso tears of the evolutionary process. Blood is now gone - thus, tears, and rightfully so. The sweat - did it end ok? Was it worth it? Do you feel cheated? Enthralled? As if you achieved?
What goes up must come down, spinning wheel got to go around…
talkin' 'bout your troubles it's a cryin' sin - ride a painted pony
let the spinning wheel spin
Victor, exactly whatinthehell are you trying to say here. I ain’t real sure. To me, it’s just perfect - blood, sweat, tears. Natural. It’s the path. All three are good really. I mean, how good is blood? Blood is the ultimate. We’re forever entrenched - even when some are gone.
Sweat? What good is life without sweat? All things don’t come easy, I don’t give a rats if you’re Mark Cuban, Allen Greenspan or Bill Gates… they don’t come easy. We all sweat. Not only occupationally - with ALL the ins and outs of relationships, work, parenting, older parents - it’s just damned hard - but if it wasn’t… then it wouldn’t be worth it.
The tears Victor, the tears… Ahhhh, perfect… Tears are God’s gift... God’s gift in loss… God’s gift in happiness… God’s gift as a gentle reminder “let it flow, but I am here for you..”
Don't wanna go by the devil
don't wanna go by the demon
don't wanna go by satan
don't wanna die uneasy
just let me go
naturally
And when I die, and when I'm dead
dead and gone
there'll be
one child born, in our world
to carry on, to carry on… Love, Victurd
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Outta cigs…….
So….. On way home I went thru the Phillips 66... Now I’m not fond of Phillips 66... I like spending my money at places where I know the people that own the joint are “townies.” Local. They remember Tippy Butts (old, kinda grumpy hunchback guy who walked the streets in the day)… they’ve “broke ‘em” at Bud’s Pool Hall more’n once… They lived/helped thru the ice storms, tornadoes that have hit our little burg…
But I stopped anyways… With gas at $2.84 a gallon, u don’t just go one block beyond to your favorite place, u stop in the path the least geographically challenged..
Poured a 20 ounce Coke… two other dudes inside… one, a peach-fuzz face guy roughly 30, and an older feller - maybe Mexican, probably 40-ish, standing by the counter… The lady working there, in her defense, looked like a ‘townie.’ As in, think I’d seen her at the Piggly Wiggly. Hell, I ain’t sure, mighta been at a Little League game.. I dunno…
Overhead, right next to the spy cameras that invade our privacy and look down u women’s tops, there were some speakers blaring some County Music stuff… I’m not a Country Music aficionado, but I considered it cool because the clerk - this lady who looked like a ‘townie’.. maybe 50-ish… far, far from posing for “Fit Magazine”… well, she was dancing to the music above.. Taking inventory with this farcified scanner do-hickey…
I proceeded to the counter… Mexican looking fellow uninterested in racing me there... Peach fuzz guy still working on his soft drink… Clerk, who appeared as a ‘townie’ danced her way back behind the counter, arms flailing, body that wasn’t “Fit Magazine” quality wiggling, ie, having fun.
Peach fuzz dude observes…. With tongue in cheek spouts “hey woman, slow down now.”…
This prompted ‘townie” Phillips 66 clerk to “get into it” even more... Hell, I felt like tipping. When’s the last time you wanted to tip at a gas station?… Mexican dude... Hella smile on his face… downplayed Peach fuzz’s (tongue in cheek) advice… smiled broadly at me and said, loud enough for Peach Fuzz and ‘townie’ to hear… “Boogie til you die.”
Wow. I knew friggin’ right then and there, within minutes, I’d be writing you. I Googled “Boogie til you die” and didn’t find shit. Should. What profound advice.
He spoke this advice to the clerk, the ‘townie’, this lady who looked like a ‘townie’.. maybe 50-ish… far, far from posing for “Fit Magazine”… She wasn’t like onea them chicks where guys hang out simply to stare at her derriere.. Or perhaps her cleavage when she bent over to tear off two lottery scratch off tickets... She was average, or actually, below (in appearance.)
It moved me. It was a lesson. I look in the mirror and see crater face. I see and observe the younger generation and I think “holy shit, how will I ever keep up.”
Don’t haveta. Looks don’t matter. Craters don’t matter. Status doesn’t really matter. Ethnicity really doesn’t matter.
Outlook matters. Screw what other’s think. Hear a great song, crank it. Feel a fun phrase insideya? Spout it out. See someone having fun - and they don’t know you’re looking? Let ‘em know you saw, and that you appreciated their ‘fun’. Little kid dancing? High five him. Groupa old fogies hee-hawing over what one of ‘em said, enjoy - and smile.
Boogie til you die. I fucking love that advice. All about choices, all about dancing thru those down times… all about 2-steppin during the good times. It’s too bad it ain’t the New Year. I really think I’d use that as onea my Resolutions. Yeah, that’d be good. Right.
Boogie til you die. We don’t need no stinking badges. We don’t needs no self-help books. It’s ALL right there. Boogie til you die. Fuckin’ A Ray. Love, Victurd.
But I stopped anyways… With gas at $2.84 a gallon, u don’t just go one block beyond to your favorite place, u stop in the path the least geographically challenged..
Poured a 20 ounce Coke… two other dudes inside… one, a peach-fuzz face guy roughly 30, and an older feller - maybe Mexican, probably 40-ish, standing by the counter… The lady working there, in her defense, looked like a ‘townie.’ As in, think I’d seen her at the Piggly Wiggly. Hell, I ain’t sure, mighta been at a Little League game.. I dunno…
Overhead, right next to the spy cameras that invade our privacy and look down u women’s tops, there were some speakers blaring some County Music stuff… I’m not a Country Music aficionado, but I considered it cool because the clerk - this lady who looked like a ‘townie’.. maybe 50-ish… far, far from posing for “Fit Magazine”… well, she was dancing to the music above.. Taking inventory with this farcified scanner do-hickey…
I proceeded to the counter… Mexican looking fellow uninterested in racing me there... Peach fuzz guy still working on his soft drink… Clerk, who appeared as a ‘townie’ danced her way back behind the counter, arms flailing, body that wasn’t “Fit Magazine” quality wiggling, ie, having fun.
Peach fuzz dude observes…. With tongue in cheek spouts “hey woman, slow down now.”…
This prompted ‘townie” Phillips 66 clerk to “get into it” even more... Hell, I felt like tipping. When’s the last time you wanted to tip at a gas station?… Mexican dude... Hella smile on his face… downplayed Peach fuzz’s (tongue in cheek) advice… smiled broadly at me and said, loud enough for Peach Fuzz and ‘townie’ to hear… “Boogie til you die.”
Wow. I knew friggin’ right then and there, within minutes, I’d be writing you. I Googled “Boogie til you die” and didn’t find shit. Should. What profound advice.
He spoke this advice to the clerk, the ‘townie’, this lady who looked like a ‘townie’.. maybe 50-ish… far, far from posing for “Fit Magazine”… She wasn’t like onea them chicks where guys hang out simply to stare at her derriere.. Or perhaps her cleavage when she bent over to tear off two lottery scratch off tickets... She was average, or actually, below (in appearance.)
It moved me. It was a lesson. I look in the mirror and see crater face. I see and observe the younger generation and I think “holy shit, how will I ever keep up.”
Don’t haveta. Looks don’t matter. Craters don’t matter. Status doesn’t really matter. Ethnicity really doesn’t matter.
Outlook matters. Screw what other’s think. Hear a great song, crank it. Feel a fun phrase insideya? Spout it out. See someone having fun - and they don’t know you’re looking? Let ‘em know you saw, and that you appreciated their ‘fun’. Little kid dancing? High five him. Groupa old fogies hee-hawing over what one of ‘em said, enjoy - and smile.
Boogie til you die. I fucking love that advice. All about choices, all about dancing thru those down times… all about 2-steppin during the good times. It’s too bad it ain’t the New Year. I really think I’d use that as onea my Resolutions. Yeah, that’d be good. Right.
Boogie til you die. We don’t need no stinking badges. We don’t needs no self-help books. It’s ALL right there. Boogie til you die. Fuckin’ A Ray. Love, Victurd.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Seven Hills Road.....
Umpteen years ago (Victor, we notice a pattern here)… there was this wonderful two mile gravel strip containing seven, count ‘em, seven wonderful hills. I’m not talking easy grade hills, I’m talking Space Mountain, Mamba, Timber Wolf hills. It was our “country” (Worlds of Fun) when “country wasn’t cool” (Worlds of Fun wasn’t built yet.)..
At least once a month, we’d entrust onea our snotnose 16 yr old friends, equipped with the 3rd car of the family (bad tires, needing jumpstart every twelfth start, headliner either gone or falling) - to take us over the course of this masterpiece of a gravel roller coaster. It was our fun before I-POD’s, cell phones, instant messages, “Oh Richard“, “Word.”… I swear to goodness the front tires of Craven’s ‘61 red Ford Fairlane were airborne atop the 4th hill…
In the Sunday spin today… Maynard and I gallivanted allover town… “Remember when we lived there?”…. “That’s where Tom lives.” Interspersed with “my homeboy’s grandpa owns that house and that house right there… rich sonofabitches.”
We’d gone past every place either of us had ever tossed a baseball, gone to school, lived, local monument… it was time to introduce Maynard to Seven Hills Road..
“Road Closed ahead.” WHAT? You can’t do that to a legend! You can’t stop fun! That’s anti-American!
I guess everything ends.… We all come upon a roadblock… So the old titillation we knew as kids - a pretty dangerous 2-lane stretch of ultimate free pleasure - had eroded to where now it was impassible.
Relationships and roadblocks. The hell is it that makes that CJ/Bobby bond (two good friends ‘o mine that have been together forever and ever, and will eternally be together forever and ever) - versus the roadblocks that come upon relationship?
There are quick roadblocks.. “Yes Yes Yes-your blog is alittle weird and alittle too 50 trying to be 25 kind of attitude for me.”
And then there was “I think you’re a really nice lady and all, but I don’t find it quite as funny as you that the pictures you sent were eight years old.”
“Victor, you’re a good man. However, you will probably never quit smoking, and you will probably never show the necessary fortitude with your son, thus, arevaderche.”
“Buyer’s remorse.” It’s happened both ways.. You know, when you see a house initially you REALLY REALLY want…. Then you go back… and back again… and you start to notice little things that just ain’t Goldilocks right. Cracks in the wall. Symmetrics that make moving with ease impossible. Realism replaces goo-goo-gah-gah…
I used to enjoy your touch, now it kinda bugs me.
I’m attracted to others at work.
I’d never heard you yell before like that… and when you were yelling at your child.. I got-at thinking’ “hmmmm… I wonder if I’m next?” (Thought silently)
The silent treatment… oh the silent treatment. I’ve been on both ends - and it’s dreadful. The road is blocked - but there are no signs, no explanations. I’m still debating whether it really should be called a shitty heart insteada a good heart when you don’t want to admit to “I don’t like this, I don’t like that.” Again, I’ve been a schmuck, and I’ve been schmucked on. Is not spouting hurt out worse than not spouting out at all?
And then there was the biggie. “Victor, it’s 2am, I’m too drunk to drive home, I’m staying at my sister’s.” Uh huh. I’m thinking’ "yes, please, Ill take those four acres in the Everglades” here. Road was blocked, and a 180 was made.
Blocking a road takes a street crew and a sign-maker, just as a relationship ending (mebbe even before it really began) takes two.
Pure white concrete Interstates, steady and solid - where cars go swiftly, mostly safely, and there’s no turning back (ie, good relationships) take two as well. I’ve said “til death do us part..”… twice… I meant it both times. I cried the second when I said it ‘cause I’d already said it.
I guess it’s all about maintenance… taking care of the dips, the curves, the hills and the valleys. Belted in of free will. Taking time to enjoy the scenery - going her way this time, your way the next.
I will really miss Seven Hills Road. Whilst occasionally one gets some yucky tar on one’s tires/wheel well, a wheel outta alignment here/there..… I don’t have a lot of regrets for the roads I’ve taken in my life. You?
Love, Victurd
At least once a month, we’d entrust onea our snotnose 16 yr old friends, equipped with the 3rd car of the family (bad tires, needing jumpstart every twelfth start, headliner either gone or falling) - to take us over the course of this masterpiece of a gravel roller coaster. It was our fun before I-POD’s, cell phones, instant messages, “Oh Richard“, “Word.”… I swear to goodness the front tires of Craven’s ‘61 red Ford Fairlane were airborne atop the 4th hill…
In the Sunday spin today… Maynard and I gallivanted allover town… “Remember when we lived there?”…. “That’s where Tom lives.” Interspersed with “my homeboy’s grandpa owns that house and that house right there… rich sonofabitches.”
We’d gone past every place either of us had ever tossed a baseball, gone to school, lived, local monument… it was time to introduce Maynard to Seven Hills Road..
“Road Closed ahead.” WHAT? You can’t do that to a legend! You can’t stop fun! That’s anti-American!
I guess everything ends.… We all come upon a roadblock… So the old titillation we knew as kids - a pretty dangerous 2-lane stretch of ultimate free pleasure - had eroded to where now it was impassible.
Relationships and roadblocks. The hell is it that makes that CJ/Bobby bond (two good friends ‘o mine that have been together forever and ever, and will eternally be together forever and ever) - versus the roadblocks that come upon relationship?
There are quick roadblocks.. “Yes Yes Yes-your blog is alittle weird and alittle too 50 trying to be 25 kind of attitude for me.”
And then there was “I think you’re a really nice lady and all, but I don’t find it quite as funny as you that the pictures you sent were eight years old.”
“Victor, you’re a good man. However, you will probably never quit smoking, and you will probably never show the necessary fortitude with your son, thus, arevaderche.”
“Buyer’s remorse.” It’s happened both ways.. You know, when you see a house initially you REALLY REALLY want…. Then you go back… and back again… and you start to notice little things that just ain’t Goldilocks right. Cracks in the wall. Symmetrics that make moving with ease impossible. Realism replaces goo-goo-gah-gah…
I used to enjoy your touch, now it kinda bugs me.
I’m attracted to others at work.
I’d never heard you yell before like that… and when you were yelling at your child.. I got-at thinking’ “hmmmm… I wonder if I’m next?” (Thought silently)
The silent treatment… oh the silent treatment. I’ve been on both ends - and it’s dreadful. The road is blocked - but there are no signs, no explanations. I’m still debating whether it really should be called a shitty heart insteada a good heart when you don’t want to admit to “I don’t like this, I don’t like that.” Again, I’ve been a schmuck, and I’ve been schmucked on. Is not spouting hurt out worse than not spouting out at all?
And then there was the biggie. “Victor, it’s 2am, I’m too drunk to drive home, I’m staying at my sister’s.” Uh huh. I’m thinking’ "yes, please, Ill take those four acres in the Everglades” here. Road was blocked, and a 180 was made.
Blocking a road takes a street crew and a sign-maker, just as a relationship ending (mebbe even before it really began) takes two.
Pure white concrete Interstates, steady and solid - where cars go swiftly, mostly safely, and there’s no turning back (ie, good relationships) take two as well. I’ve said “til death do us part..”… twice… I meant it both times. I cried the second when I said it ‘cause I’d already said it.
I guess it’s all about maintenance… taking care of the dips, the curves, the hills and the valleys. Belted in of free will. Taking time to enjoy the scenery - going her way this time, your way the next.
I will really miss Seven Hills Road. Whilst occasionally one gets some yucky tar on one’s tires/wheel well, a wheel outta alignment here/there..… I don’t have a lot of regrets for the roads I’ve taken in my life. You?
Love, Victurd
Seven Hills Road….
Umpteen years ago (Victor, we notice a pattern here)… there was this wonderful two mile gravel strip containing seven, count ‘em, seven wonderful hills. I’m not talking easy grade hills, I’m talking Space Mountain, Mamba, Timber Wolf hills. It was our “country” (Worlds of Fun) when “country wasn’t cool” (Worlds of Fun wasn’t built yet.)..
At least once a month, we’d entrust onea our snotnose 16 yr old friends, equipped with the 3rd car of the family (bad tires, needing jumpstart every twelfth start, headliner either gone or falling) - to take us over the course of this masterpiece of a gravel roller coaster. It was our fun before I-POD’s, cell phones, instant messages, “Oh Richard“, “Word.”… I swear to goodness the front tires of Craven’s ‘61 red Ford Fairlane were airborne atop the 4th hill…
In the Sunday spin today… Maynard and I gallivanted allover town… “Remember when we lived there?”…. “That’s where Tom lives.” Interspersed with “my homeboy’s grandpa owns that house and that house right there… rich sonofabitches.”
We’d gone past every place either of us had ever tossed a baseball, gone to school, lived, local monument… it was time to introduce Maynard to Seven Hills Road..
“Road Closed ahead.” WHAT? You can’t do that to a legend! You can’t stop fun! That’s anti-American!
I guess everything ends.… We all come upon a roadblock… So the old titillation we knew as kids - a pretty dangerous 2-lane stretch of ultimate free pleasure - had eroded to where now it was impassible.
Relationships and roadblocks. The hell is it that makes that CJ/Bobby bond (two good friends ‘o mine that have been together forever and ever, and will eternally be together forever and ever) - versus the roadblocks that come upon relationship?
There are quick roadblocks.. “Yes Yes Yes-your blog is alittle weird and alittle too 50 trying to be 25 kind of attitude for me.”
And then there was “I think you’re a really nice lady and all, but I don’t find it quite as funny as you that the pictures you sent were eight years old.”
“Victor, you’re a good man. However, you will probably never quit smoking, and you will probably never show the necessary fortitude with your son, thus, arevaderche.”
“Buyer’s remorse.” It’s happened both ways.. You know, when you see a house initially you REALLY REALLY want…. Then you go back… and back again… and you start to notice little things that just ain’t Goldilocks right. Cracks in the wall. Symmetrics that make moving with ease impossible. Realism replaces goo-goo-gah-gah…
I used to enjoy your touch, now it kinda bugs me.
I’m attracted to others at work.
I’d never heard you yell before like that… and when you were yelling at your child.. I got-at thinking’ “hmmmm… I wonder if I’m next?” (Thought silently)
The silent treatment… oh the silent treatment. I’ve been on both ends - and it’s dreadful. The road is blocked - but there are no signs, no explanations. I’m still debating whether it really should be called a shitty heart insteada a good heart when you don’t want to admit to “I don’t like this, I don’t like that.” Again, I’ve been a schmuck, and I’ve been schmucked on. Is not spouting hurt out worse than not spouting out at all?
And then there was the biggie. “Victor, it’s 2am, I’m too drunk to drive home, I’m staying at my sister’s.” Uh huh. I’m thinking’ "yes, please, Ill take those four acres in the Everglades” here. Road was blocked, and a 180 was made.
Blocking a road takes a street crew and a sign-maker, just as a relationship ending (mebbe even before it really began) takes two.
Pure white concrete Interstates, steady and solid - where cars go swiftly, mostly safely, and there’s no turning back (ie, good relationships) take two as well. I’ve said “til death do us part..”… twice… I meant it both times. I cried the second when I said it ‘cause I’d already said it.
I guess it’s all about maintenance… taking care of the dips, the curves, the hills and the valleys. Belted in of free will. Taking time to enjoy the scenery - going her way this time, your way the next.
I will really miss Seven Hills Road. Whilst occasionally one gets some yucky tar on one’s tires/wheel well, a wheel outta alignment here/there..… I don’t have a lot of regrets for the roads I’ve taken in my life. You?
Love, Victurd
At least once a month, we’d entrust onea our snotnose 16 yr old friends, equipped with the 3rd car of the family (bad tires, needing jumpstart every twelfth start, headliner either gone or falling) - to take us over the course of this masterpiece of a gravel roller coaster. It was our fun before I-POD’s, cell phones, instant messages, “Oh Richard“, “Word.”… I swear to goodness the front tires of Craven’s ‘61 red Ford Fairlane were airborne atop the 4th hill…
In the Sunday spin today… Maynard and I gallivanted allover town… “Remember when we lived there?”…. “That’s where Tom lives.” Interspersed with “my homeboy’s grandpa owns that house and that house right there… rich sonofabitches.”
We’d gone past every place either of us had ever tossed a baseball, gone to school, lived, local monument… it was time to introduce Maynard to Seven Hills Road..
“Road Closed ahead.” WHAT? You can’t do that to a legend! You can’t stop fun! That’s anti-American!
I guess everything ends.… We all come upon a roadblock… So the old titillation we knew as kids - a pretty dangerous 2-lane stretch of ultimate free pleasure - had eroded to where now it was impassible.
Relationships and roadblocks. The hell is it that makes that CJ/Bobby bond (two good friends ‘o mine that have been together forever and ever, and will eternally be together forever and ever) - versus the roadblocks that come upon relationship?
There are quick roadblocks.. “Yes Yes Yes-your blog is alittle weird and alittle too 50 trying to be 25 kind of attitude for me.”
And then there was “I think you’re a really nice lady and all, but I don’t find it quite as funny as you that the pictures you sent were eight years old.”
“Victor, you’re a good man. However, you will probably never quit smoking, and you will probably never show the necessary fortitude with your son, thus, arevaderche.”
“Buyer’s remorse.” It’s happened both ways.. You know, when you see a house initially you REALLY REALLY want…. Then you go back… and back again… and you start to notice little things that just ain’t Goldilocks right. Cracks in the wall. Symmetrics that make moving with ease impossible. Realism replaces goo-goo-gah-gah…
I used to enjoy your touch, now it kinda bugs me.
I’m attracted to others at work.
I’d never heard you yell before like that… and when you were yelling at your child.. I got-at thinking’ “hmmmm… I wonder if I’m next?” (Thought silently)
The silent treatment… oh the silent treatment. I’ve been on both ends - and it’s dreadful. The road is blocked - but there are no signs, no explanations. I’m still debating whether it really should be called a shitty heart insteada a good heart when you don’t want to admit to “I don’t like this, I don’t like that.” Again, I’ve been a schmuck, and I’ve been schmucked on. Is not spouting hurt out worse than not spouting out at all?
And then there was the biggie. “Victor, it’s 2am, I’m too drunk to drive home, I’m staying at my sister’s.” Uh huh. I’m thinking’ "yes, please, Ill take those four acres in the Everglades” here. Road was blocked, and a 180 was made.
Blocking a road takes a street crew and a sign-maker, just as a relationship ending (mebbe even before it really began) takes two.
Pure white concrete Interstates, steady and solid - where cars go swiftly, mostly safely, and there’s no turning back (ie, good relationships) take two as well. I’ve said “til death do us part..”… twice… I meant it both times. I cried the second when I said it ‘cause I’d already said it.
I guess it’s all about maintenance… taking care of the dips, the curves, the hills and the valleys. Belted in of free will. Taking time to enjoy the scenery - going her way this time, your way the next.
I will really miss Seven Hills Road. Whilst occasionally one gets some yucky tar on one’s tires/wheel well, a wheel outta alignment here/there..… I don’t have a lot of regrets for the roads I’ve taken in my life. You?
Love, Victurd
My Space…
I really think (for those of u reading from the plain ole internet site checkenginelight.blogspot.com, I duplicate this stupid thing and transpose it on MySpace. Here > http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=82365535... ) Where was I? Oh yeah…
I really think My Space should be called Shared Space. My Space ain’t private, and to me the true definition of My Space should be private.. College fraternity brother would invade My Space, steal a cig, then go put it in his pack. Bastard. That’s My Space.
If I ride to lunch with this chicky who abhors smoking, I must submit to “this is my GD car, I hate cigarette smoke (WE KNOW WE KNOW!) and it’s My Space, and you ain’t smoking.” Ok. Can do. I honor your My Space.
For years, this abode I/we call home was Our Space. As the facial hairs came, as the birthdays making he of legal age to vote, then drink, and even one more birthday came - Our Space has turned into the want of My Space. Carrying it further, My House. My Space. Not Shared Space, not Our Space, My Space. I love the little dooger, and I’m in his court - I selfishly find myself wishing that court had a different zip code. You know, kinda like grandkids - u go see them, or they come to u, but then we go home... Or they go home… and we have My Space once again.
Danger danger, warning warning. NC-17 ahead. God created woman with that place. You know: My Space. For years it’s driven men crazy, attempting to conquer My Space. "That's My Space, and unless you'd like your jaw rearranged, I'd suggest you move your hand NOW." I once sat in the kitchen of a friend’s house whilst in the living room there was a bachelorette party going on in the living room. Not a drinking kinda bachelorette party, it was onea those put on by an Adult Novelty Company. Somewhere betweengst conversation, giggles, talk about “look how big that purple thing is!” and edible undies - there was talk about “just how ugly My Space is”. “Have you ever really looked?” asked the Adult Novelty Company leader lady… “No, haven’t.” So, one by one, they went into the bathroom with mirror in hand.. And viewed My Space. Again, shrieks. Giggles. Redfacedness. When one thinks of pretty pictures - views are conjured up of a tree with ice on it… an infant rolling with a puppy… a grandad holding his young granddaughter’s hand as they walk. Not “My Space.” Or the My Space of a woman. However, again, for years it’s driven men crazy, attempting to conquer My Space - and me thinks it always will.
My Space at home. WHERE’S MY FAVORITE RED-WHITE-AND-BLUE STRIPED BOXER BRIEFS? GD it, that’s My Space.
My Space at work. I can’t believe someone had the gaul to go into the company refrigerator and steal from my paper bag lunch. THAT’S My Space!
We get “into other’s business.” We violate My Space. We are known by the Government by 9 digits. GD that’s MY SPACE. The lady walking her Springer Spaniel that leaves little brown chunks on the edgea your lawn… THAT’S MY SPACE.
We stare hatefully at the car to our left at McDonalds… they ordering from the inside lane, us from the outside lane. We await the car in front to move. When it finally does, THAT’S MY SPACE. Biotch!
We see “Tom”. Tom is a My Space have to. We have no say in the matter. Should be My Space. It ain’t. We share My Space with Tom. We all do. Tom, in pig Latin, please know “it’gey, e-they, uck-fey, outta ear-hey.”
Four tables at the Laundromat to fold clothes. (Yes, I have 4 washing machines, and 3 dryers in the basement, it’s just that none of ‘em work)… So, the place is empty. I set my basket, my soap, my little dryer softener thingys, my newspaper down on the 2nd table. Lady toting three kids, the youngest of which was a real whiney butt, has three tables to choose from on where to set her purse, basket, detergent, etc, etc. So what’d she do? Nooooooooooo, she couldn’t pick onea the other tables. She took MY SPACE. GRRRRRRRRRRR! So I moved over one table, and delighted in the fact she contributed to the whiney-buttedness of the youngest by saying twelve times “NO, these quarters are for doing the clothes!” - and then proceeding to one by one give her a total of $1.50 for games and junk candy. M, is that an example of Karma?
My beloved aunt and uncle, Ima and Sandy (may they rest in peace) in a roundabout way taught me about My Space. They loved to travel - and much preferred “this is my relative, I think we’ll stay here for awhile” insteada the Holiday Inn. The only problem was, they never madea reservation, or forewarned of the when they’d be there. I think I heard the words My Space whispered under the breath of my dad in the kitchen, and this was YEARS before Al invented the internet.
Ok, time for me to get the hell outta here. I’ve dominated Your Space. I do love sharing My Space (not you Tom).. As always, thanks for dropping in. No reservations about that, and no reservations ever needed!
Love, Victurd
I really think My Space should be called Shared Space. My Space ain’t private, and to me the true definition of My Space should be private.. College fraternity brother would invade My Space, steal a cig, then go put it in his pack. Bastard. That’s My Space.
If I ride to lunch with this chicky who abhors smoking, I must submit to “this is my GD car, I hate cigarette smoke (WE KNOW WE KNOW!) and it’s My Space, and you ain’t smoking.” Ok. Can do. I honor your My Space.
For years, this abode I/we call home was Our Space. As the facial hairs came, as the birthdays making he of legal age to vote, then drink, and even one more birthday came - Our Space has turned into the want of My Space. Carrying it further, My House. My Space. Not Shared Space, not Our Space, My Space. I love the little dooger, and I’m in his court - I selfishly find myself wishing that court had a different zip code. You know, kinda like grandkids - u go see them, or they come to u, but then we go home... Or they go home… and we have My Space once again.
Danger danger, warning warning. NC-17 ahead. God created woman with that place. You know: My Space. For years it’s driven men crazy, attempting to conquer My Space. "That's My Space, and unless you'd like your jaw rearranged, I'd suggest you move your hand NOW." I once sat in the kitchen of a friend’s house whilst in the living room there was a bachelorette party going on in the living room. Not a drinking kinda bachelorette party, it was onea those put on by an Adult Novelty Company. Somewhere betweengst conversation, giggles, talk about “look how big that purple thing is!” and edible undies - there was talk about “just how ugly My Space is”. “Have you ever really looked?” asked the Adult Novelty Company leader lady… “No, haven’t.” So, one by one, they went into the bathroom with mirror in hand.. And viewed My Space. Again, shrieks. Giggles. Redfacedness. When one thinks of pretty pictures - views are conjured up of a tree with ice on it… an infant rolling with a puppy… a grandad holding his young granddaughter’s hand as they walk. Not “My Space.” Or the My Space of a woman. However, again, for years it’s driven men crazy, attempting to conquer My Space - and me thinks it always will.
My Space at home. WHERE’S MY FAVORITE RED-WHITE-AND-BLUE STRIPED BOXER BRIEFS? GD it, that’s My Space.
My Space at work. I can’t believe someone had the gaul to go into the company refrigerator and steal from my paper bag lunch. THAT’S My Space!
We get “into other’s business.” We violate My Space. We are known by the Government by 9 digits. GD that’s MY SPACE. The lady walking her Springer Spaniel that leaves little brown chunks on the edgea your lawn… THAT’S MY SPACE.
We stare hatefully at the car to our left at McDonalds… they ordering from the inside lane, us from the outside lane. We await the car in front to move. When it finally does, THAT’S MY SPACE. Biotch!
We see “Tom”. Tom is a My Space have to. We have no say in the matter. Should be My Space. It ain’t. We share My Space with Tom. We all do. Tom, in pig Latin, please know “it’gey, e-they, uck-fey, outta ear-hey.”
Four tables at the Laundromat to fold clothes. (Yes, I have 4 washing machines, and 3 dryers in the basement, it’s just that none of ‘em work)… So, the place is empty. I set my basket, my soap, my little dryer softener thingys, my newspaper down on the 2nd table. Lady toting three kids, the youngest of which was a real whiney butt, has three tables to choose from on where to set her purse, basket, detergent, etc, etc. So what’d she do? Nooooooooooo, she couldn’t pick onea the other tables. She took MY SPACE. GRRRRRRRRRRR! So I moved over one table, and delighted in the fact she contributed to the whiney-buttedness of the youngest by saying twelve times “NO, these quarters are for doing the clothes!” - and then proceeding to one by one give her a total of $1.50 for games and junk candy. M, is that an example of Karma?
My beloved aunt and uncle, Ima and Sandy (may they rest in peace) in a roundabout way taught me about My Space. They loved to travel - and much preferred “this is my relative, I think we’ll stay here for awhile” insteada the Holiday Inn. The only problem was, they never madea reservation, or forewarned of the when they’d be there. I think I heard the words My Space whispered under the breath of my dad in the kitchen, and this was YEARS before Al invented the internet.
Ok, time for me to get the hell outta here. I’ve dominated Your Space. I do love sharing My Space (not you Tom).. As always, thanks for dropping in. No reservations about that, and no reservations ever needed!
Love, Victurd
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Of being a freshman in life....
No, not “fresh man”, freshman. As in ‘start’. Beginning. Life’s stops include many starts. Re-starts. Just when we think we got this crap all figured out - we find ourselves once again nervously walking down the halls of life.
2008. We’re all freshman allover again. Exciting in that opportunity abounds - scary in that we must have the necessary faith in ourselves. The fear of the unknown, surrounded by the ability to make it how we want.
I’ll never forget my freshman year. Our high school had four grades in it, Freshman through Senior… We’d all turned the corner from “playing with army guys” to “holy crap, look at the booty on that one!”.. Diminutive in size with humongous gazing capabilities.. We learned from the older folks - little did they know they role modeled... Then, a bit later - little did we know we role modeled.
Life’s a continuous thing… There are days when I wake up - should be very very thankful of that in and of itself… that I wanna hit the snooze and say “nah…. Not today.”.. Then there are events, muchlike the first all-school dance back in the day - where we spring onto the floor - take that peek in the mirror, smile and think “this is gonna be fun.”
We’re starting over with our friends. We can pickup a book if they drop it. We can be an ear if they need it. We can jointly pull some prank on another freshman. We can run to them if we find ourselves in a time of need. I suppose nowadays even a text message could be a pity party.
We start the year with this coldass crap… and perhaps that’s good… buddy-o-mine at work… as he walked out the door in 14 degree temp with 20 mph northerly wind to join me in a smoke, said “I can’t wait until summer.”
2008, we hope we see spring. There’s still some confused birds making their way south.. We can’t wait for the “sophomore days” and their return - for the grass will literally be greener. Sometime in the junior portion of the year we will boat, jet ski, hike, canoe, swim, run, walk, sweat, gather, party, and suckup all the broadened daylight hours between the semesters…
Fall, the beginning of being a senior, is time for reflection of the fun part of the freshman year… We’re teased with summer like days, and reminded of what’s ahead by frost on the pumpkin. Winter allows us to ‘senior ourself’.. you know, like wear white patent leathers, hike our pants up over the belly button, bitch about taxes, politiciansm the cold - all whilst slip-sliding around these Midwestern roads.
The “graduation”, the last week and a half of the year - are celebratory… We gaze at the bright eyes of the ones that ain’t close to being a freshman… and we’re thankful of the ‘alums’ that surround us…
Sometimes 2008, I don’t feel like doing it. Occasionally, I don’t wanna be a freshman again. I mebbe just wanna lay in bed until I see that first robin. Until I hear “play ball” come on the radio.. Then I remember what that backseat kiss felt like… how cool it was when I was handed a note by a bright-eyed beauty… the repor and education granted by those senior to ourselves… the fun we had in building friendships as a freshman.. The lifelong ties we made.. And I get excited..
We’re continually placed in “freshmanhood.” Be it a new job. A new mate. Being a parent. Being a grandparent. Making that new friend. Getting used to that new Hot… Rod… Lincoln.. A new house. A fancified new gadget. On a committee. Organizer. Overseer. Manager.. Teacher.. Learner.. Yes, even a new year.
With the exception of one Roger C - a senior who made mosta my year hell, which included pulling a knife on me in the hall, I loved being a freshman. I remember it as thinking I actually knew what the L word meant, felt like. I remember learning to look up to slightly older peers.. I remember helping the little ones not in high school. Being a freshman is educational and fun.
Life whittles us back into freshmanhood, and starting 2008 is no exception. Perhaps Lennon said it best.. “It'll be just like starting over, starting over….. Let's take a chance and fly away somewhere…Starting over.”
Gotta go now. Mom’s dropping me off at the Koo Koo Drive In. Rumor has it Sam G, class of ‘69, is gonna drive around the joint 69 times. Shotgun passenger, Vic R, class of ‘70, has promised he’ll then get out and walk the final, 70th lap. God it’s great being a freshman. May you enjoy your laps. Love, Victurd.
2008. We’re all freshman allover again. Exciting in that opportunity abounds - scary in that we must have the necessary faith in ourselves. The fear of the unknown, surrounded by the ability to make it how we want.
I’ll never forget my freshman year. Our high school had four grades in it, Freshman through Senior… We’d all turned the corner from “playing with army guys” to “holy crap, look at the booty on that one!”.. Diminutive in size with humongous gazing capabilities.. We learned from the older folks - little did they know they role modeled... Then, a bit later - little did we know we role modeled.
Life’s a continuous thing… There are days when I wake up - should be very very thankful of that in and of itself… that I wanna hit the snooze and say “nah…. Not today.”.. Then there are events, muchlike the first all-school dance back in the day - where we spring onto the floor - take that peek in the mirror, smile and think “this is gonna be fun.”
We’re starting over with our friends. We can pickup a book if they drop it. We can be an ear if they need it. We can jointly pull some prank on another freshman. We can run to them if we find ourselves in a time of need. I suppose nowadays even a text message could be a pity party.
We start the year with this coldass crap… and perhaps that’s good… buddy-o-mine at work… as he walked out the door in 14 degree temp with 20 mph northerly wind to join me in a smoke, said “I can’t wait until summer.”
2008, we hope we see spring. There’s still some confused birds making their way south.. We can’t wait for the “sophomore days” and their return - for the grass will literally be greener. Sometime in the junior portion of the year we will boat, jet ski, hike, canoe, swim, run, walk, sweat, gather, party, and suckup all the broadened daylight hours between the semesters…
Fall, the beginning of being a senior, is time for reflection of the fun part of the freshman year… We’re teased with summer like days, and reminded of what’s ahead by frost on the pumpkin. Winter allows us to ‘senior ourself’.. you know, like wear white patent leathers, hike our pants up over the belly button, bitch about taxes, politiciansm the cold - all whilst slip-sliding around these Midwestern roads.
The “graduation”, the last week and a half of the year - are celebratory… We gaze at the bright eyes of the ones that ain’t close to being a freshman… and we’re thankful of the ‘alums’ that surround us…
Sometimes 2008, I don’t feel like doing it. Occasionally, I don’t wanna be a freshman again. I mebbe just wanna lay in bed until I see that first robin. Until I hear “play ball” come on the radio.. Then I remember what that backseat kiss felt like… how cool it was when I was handed a note by a bright-eyed beauty… the repor and education granted by those senior to ourselves… the fun we had in building friendships as a freshman.. The lifelong ties we made.. And I get excited..
We’re continually placed in “freshmanhood.” Be it a new job. A new mate. Being a parent. Being a grandparent. Making that new friend. Getting used to that new Hot… Rod… Lincoln.. A new house. A fancified new gadget. On a committee. Organizer. Overseer. Manager.. Teacher.. Learner.. Yes, even a new year.
With the exception of one Roger C - a senior who made mosta my year hell, which included pulling a knife on me in the hall, I loved being a freshman. I remember it as thinking I actually knew what the L word meant, felt like. I remember learning to look up to slightly older peers.. I remember helping the little ones not in high school. Being a freshman is educational and fun.
Life whittles us back into freshmanhood, and starting 2008 is no exception. Perhaps Lennon said it best.. “It'll be just like starting over, starting over….. Let's take a chance and fly away somewhere…Starting over.”
Gotta go now. Mom’s dropping me off at the Koo Koo Drive In. Rumor has it Sam G, class of ‘69, is gonna drive around the joint 69 times. Shotgun passenger, Vic R, class of ‘70, has promised he’ll then get out and walk the final, 70th lap. God it’s great being a freshman. May you enjoy your laps. Love, Victurd.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Anticipation…….
We can never know about the days to come
But we think about them anyway
And I wonder if I’m really with you now
Or just chasing after some finer day.
We paint pictures in our mind… and we follow dreams… what if’s… “mebbe feels”.. we imagine this, that… we feel what we think it would feel like… we aim, dream, envision, walk, run, crawl for those dreams… we anticipate… I spose it could be considered hallucinogenic..
Anticipation, anticipating
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting
We visualize running across the field together… jumping the brook one after the other… rolling in the tall grass in euphoric bliss… saying good night in the soft light that purports your skin to be just as nice as dreamed… we touch as we sleep… no midnight “can’t sleep”s.. no 2am trips for Rolaids… no 5am nervous tinkles... We see/feel/imagine - good.
And I tell you how easy it is to be with you
And how right your arms feel around me.
Bit I rehearsed those words just late last night
When I was thinking about how right tonight might be.
I think anticipation is/can be a very good thing. I once heard, the saddest thing there is - is the sad rich man, for he has no hope… The remainder of us… Those of us with one-half of a Sealy Posturepedic to offer… anticipation is a wonderful thing…
Anticipation, anticipation
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting
Late, yes, I am that. Keeping me waiting? Tis very AOK, the waiting actually keeps me going. If one gives up, there’s no anticipation. No dreaming. No hope. No visualization of “together good.”
And tomorrow we might not be together
I’m no prophet, I don’t know natures way
And we don’t.. It could be Tuesday… It could be April… It could be late 2009.. It could be never… Just “keeping” anticipation alive perpetuates living good. Living with hope. Much like a kid going to bed on 12/24... The wide eyed feel of a kindergartner on the first day… The graduate in his/her first real interview…
So Ill try to see into your eyes right now
And stay right here, cause these are the good old days.
Try to see into your eyes right now… You married folks... God Blessya - tis my hope you appreciate… You single folks… I think I can speak for you in that we all anticipate…We visualize a sugar plum fairy world… A utopia… A Goldilocks “juuuuuuust right.”
There’s no giving up in anticipation. There’s no certainty in anticipation. Patience is rare in anticipation. Prediction of anticipation coming to fruition is fruitless. Anticipation, however, is wonderful.
Anticipation, anticipation
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting
Thanks Carly. That was a beautiful song. We anticipate cranking it one day should it come on the radio when… well… you know…
Hey, have a great Thursday…. I anticipate you will…. Love, Victurd.
But we think about them anyway
And I wonder if I’m really with you now
Or just chasing after some finer day.
We paint pictures in our mind… and we follow dreams… what if’s… “mebbe feels”.. we imagine this, that… we feel what we think it would feel like… we aim, dream, envision, walk, run, crawl for those dreams… we anticipate… I spose it could be considered hallucinogenic..
Anticipation, anticipating
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting
We visualize running across the field together… jumping the brook one after the other… rolling in the tall grass in euphoric bliss… saying good night in the soft light that purports your skin to be just as nice as dreamed… we touch as we sleep… no midnight “can’t sleep”s.. no 2am trips for Rolaids… no 5am nervous tinkles... We see/feel/imagine - good.
And I tell you how easy it is to be with you
And how right your arms feel around me.
Bit I rehearsed those words just late last night
When I was thinking about how right tonight might be.
I think anticipation is/can be a very good thing. I once heard, the saddest thing there is - is the sad rich man, for he has no hope… The remainder of us… Those of us with one-half of a Sealy Posturepedic to offer… anticipation is a wonderful thing…
Anticipation, anticipation
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting
Late, yes, I am that. Keeping me waiting? Tis very AOK, the waiting actually keeps me going. If one gives up, there’s no anticipation. No dreaming. No hope. No visualization of “together good.”
And tomorrow we might not be together
I’m no prophet, I don’t know natures way
And we don’t.. It could be Tuesday… It could be April… It could be late 2009.. It could be never… Just “keeping” anticipation alive perpetuates living good. Living with hope. Much like a kid going to bed on 12/24... The wide eyed feel of a kindergartner on the first day… The graduate in his/her first real interview…
So Ill try to see into your eyes right now
And stay right here, cause these are the good old days.
Try to see into your eyes right now… You married folks... God Blessya - tis my hope you appreciate… You single folks… I think I can speak for you in that we all anticipate…We visualize a sugar plum fairy world… A utopia… A Goldilocks “juuuuuuust right.”
There’s no giving up in anticipation. There’s no certainty in anticipation. Patience is rare in anticipation. Prediction of anticipation coming to fruition is fruitless. Anticipation, however, is wonderful.
Anticipation, anticipation
Is making me late
Is keeping me waiting
Thanks Carly. That was a beautiful song. We anticipate cranking it one day should it come on the radio when… well… you know…
Hey, have a great Thursday…. I anticipate you will…. Love, Victurd.
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